Stumble
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Just when House thinks he's got nothing else to live for, he's reminded that he's still got something to lose. No Slash. HouseWilson friendship. Please Read and
1. Prologue

A/N: My 2nd House fic. This will be a longer work.

Hope you like this, Sydedalus. (Btw, if you haven't already, go read her House fic - _Intervention_. Brilliant.)

Excuse me if this sucks.

This fic will have NO PAIRINGS. NO SLASH. House and Wilson friendship.

Please Read and Review. Thank you.

Dislcaimer: Not mine, don't sue.

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_Stumble_

Prologue

House didn't smile as the wind blew through his hair. He tuned out of the traffic noises and the city lights, staring hard at the windshield but seeing something else completely. His latest patient plagued him, as he tried to figure out the cause for ailment. It had been two days now, and the ducklings hadn't arrived at a conclusion. Meanwhile, the woman, Sarah Dyer, grew worse. Typical, thought House. His frown twitched. People liked death too much.

The tires flowed over the pavement as if the car were caught in a river current. It reminded House of trauma's latest, famous patient, a man who had almost drowned in the flood some two weeks ago. Damn rain wouldn't let up. Today had been dry, however. It almost made House suspicious. His blue eyes gleamed. The corvette kept flowing – one way, no turns. He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to drive – wind surrounding.

Friday. It was Friday night. He should go to a bar. Somehow, he didn't want to. Didn't feel like it. His typical bar visits were made in the company of Wilson, unless House was brooding more than usual. James had gone home – painfully clean house, rooms too wide, unloving wife. At least there was the dog. (Since when did Wilson have a dog?) House knew Wilson never drank at home. Somehow, only House made it okay for James.

He sighed with closed lips. Head titled. Tires flowed. Eyes glinted. Breathed. Leg twitched. His cane was lying in the back seat. He was tired – tired of his life, his job, himself. What little pleasure he used to have had dwindled away, courtesy of Vogler, Cuddy, Stacey, and the rest of the God damn world who wouldn't leave him alone.

Except for Wilson.

Wilson was okay.

But Wilson wasn't enough anymore. Not enough compensation for everything else. House was tired of being pissed off, tired of depression, tired of pain.

The pain was always there.

Not anymore.

Now, he was ending it.

For good.

His eyes sharpened. Windshield reflection.

Red light.

Run.

Horn complaints.

Fuck off.

He kept going.

House pulled into his driveway. Even with the river stilled, he stayed. He stared into the windshield. His fingers were loose around the keys. Moonlight made love to the corvette's red paint. The trees swayed – night wind. He had stopped thinking about Sarah Dyer. He had decided. Resolved. House jerked out of his car, slammed the door closed, grabbed his cane, limped inside. He threw the front door shut without turning around, plodded around in the dark, passed what few pictures he had – Wilson smiling, his mother, and himself with Wilson at a concert, both in full fan attire. House was actually smiling there. He couldn't remember if it had been real or not.

He flipped the light on in the kitchen, leaned into the refrigerator, and grabbed a beer. He didn't feel like scotch tonight. He slumped into a chair at the table and wrestled with the bottle cap for a good two minutes before it popped off. The foam slid down his throat in a cool act of comfort. Life did have its pleasures.

He left the kitchen, plopped on the couch, switched on the TV.

"Forecast predicts another night of rain and a flood warning for the Princeton-Plainsboro area. Don't want to be out on this Friday night, folks, and keep those cats inside."

"Oh, shut up," House said. He took another drink. Sighed. Turned off the TV.

He strained to get back on his feet, moved to the piano, stood sullenly before it. The keys were sleeping under the cover. He set his beer down next to the sheet music, propped his cane against the bench, took out his Vicodin bottle. He listened to the familiar rattling of pills as he unscrewed the cap. There was no voice in his head warning him of consequences. Wilson was only there for a second, a flash. He was smiling. House didn't.

He poured the whole bottle into his hand.

Piano started singing in his head.

He stared at the broken snowflake in his cupped palm.

Big snowflake.

He tipped his head back, dropped them in his mouth, grabbed his beer again.

First drink, second drink, third drink.

Hardly knew the pills were there.

He threw the empty bottle on the floor.

Hung his head. He wasn't Christ.

Heartbeat. (It was his cell phone.)

He sighed. No fucking peace. Took it out, flipped it open.

"What?" he snapped.

"Dr. House." It was Cuddy.

"Day's over, Cuddy. Not making me do clinic duty now."

"It's Wilson."

House froze.

"He's been in an accident, House."

His lungs sucked in on themselves.

"How bad?"


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: Wow. I actually made it through Chapter 1. For some reason, this harder in coming than most things I write.

I'm hope it's okay. Sorry if it sucks.

Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers.

Please read and review. Thank you.

Reminder: _**No slash.**_

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even Wilson. Don't sue.

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Chapter 1

House knew it was bad when Cuddy only told him to come to the hospital. He didn't bother with a goodbye -- just flipped the phone closed, grabbed his cane, and left. He didn't look at the pictures of Wilson. He didn't pick up the empty Vicodin bottle. He brought his unfinished beer. And half of him didn't give a damn about drunk driving accidents.

He didn't know what he was thinking while he drove. He liked the motor sounds – revving. He didn't acknowledge the memory flash of Wilson laughing when he had speeded his friend around on the freeway. 50. 60. 65. He wanted some hammered prick to run into him at the next intersection. The wind blurred all the lights as if they were wet paint. The pills were starting to sink in – dissolving into his blood, becoming inseparable. His muscles began their slow descent into relaxation. He was waiting for his heart to run itself through with the intoxicated relief, waiting for his brain to soak it up, for the dopamine to overflow.

Thunder shook the earth. He could sense the slow ripples of lightening jolting through the black clouds. Wilson was alive. If he were dead, Cuddy would've told House. Or maybe she was the type who thought death wasn't a topic for phone conversation. House knew in his subconscious that this possibility scared the shit out of him. On the other hand, if it were true, he would have all the more reason to let the pills work their magic. Nothing to hold him here without Wilson. Nothing to make the afterlife better. He didn't even know if he believed in an afterlife.

He was a doctor. He didn't believe in God. He didn't believe in heaven or hell. (He was already in Hell.) He supposed that all death would be was darkness – the end of existence. And as depressing as that may seem, he wanted it more than he wanted life. He wanted the relief. He wanted the end – of pain, of sorrow, of anger, of disability. He had pushed himself long enough. Every man had his limits. And House was at the end of his. He was ready for the dark. He was ready for dreamless sleep. He just needed to make sure Wilson didn't follow him yet.

(He drove. Piano in his head.)

His heart didn't even grasp this.

He didn't feel Wilson slipping away.

He didn't feel Cuddy's words.

If he had, it would be desperation and panic and fear – drowning in an ocean of feelings.

But he didn't feel it.

He just knew it.

And whatever minuscule part of him that wasn't frozen over screamed.

"IT'S WILSON, GOD DAMN IT. IT'S WILSON."

It screamed from the depths of his soul in a frantic madness.

Wilson. His Wilson. His best friend. Accident. Too bad to be explained on the phone.

But Vicodin and resignation blocked that voice out. He didn't care. He couldn't feel this anymore. He was done. It was nothing more than duty now.

Sirens wailed like banshees in the night. He turned his head and the red lights blared, revolving, crying.

Lamentation for the fallen.

It was never as glorious as war stories.

It was ass-kicking from your own body – civil war. People turned on themselves, lost control of themselves.

And there was nothing glorious about that. There was no dignity.

He remembered telling the schoolteacher this.

No dignity in death. None at all.

But at this point – he didn't give a damn.

And he knew Wilson would cry. If Wilson survived. He knew those brown eyes would grow sad because Wilson actually cared. The only one who ever truly did – the only who had stuck by him all this time.

And now House was abandoning him.

That's what kind of bastard he was.

He deserved to stop existing.

That little human part worried. Who would take care of Wilson in his absence? Who would love Wilson with this same silent love? This love – this love that watched James when James wasn't looking, making sure he was okay, sensing the unspoken, mending the broken, fitting like the puzzle pieces they had put together when House had been in the hospital for his leg. Who would watch over Wilson? Who would let him stay overnight when he had a bad fallout with his wife? Who would throw Christmas candy at him? Who would make him smile? Who would fight with him over feelings and well being?

House didn't know.

But at the same time, he knew he was setting Wilson free. No more sarcasm. No more insults. No more shunning. No more rejection. No more fights. No more hurting James without any reason. No more disappointing him. No more feigned apathy or ingratitude. No more House. And Wilson could go find someone good, someone who would treat him like he deserved to be treated.

It's not that House didn't love him.

(The tires made tsunamis in the street puddles.)

Wilson was the only person House loved.

And Wilson was the only person who loved House.

And they knew this.

The rest of the world couldn't stand House. And it hurt. It added on to his pain. But at the same time, he pushed everyone away. And maybe it was because they pushed him away. Or maybe it was just self-pity. Either way, there was a mutual separation between House and the rest of humanity.

But Wilson was the exception.

Wilson didn't care what he did or what he said or how much of a jerk he was.

Wilson knew about the pain.

And Wilson soothed it.

Or at least did the best he could.

And when the world turned on House yet again, Wilson was there to stand up for him.

So long as Wilson lived, House would always have someone to lean on to keep himself from stumbling.

Yes.

He loved James. But that love had grown weak and tired, worn out by abuse and his own unworthiness. He had become immune to its comfort, paralleling his immunity to the drugs. But he couldn't take more love. Wilson gave him everything. There was nothing left to give. House couldn't ask for anymore.

But he could take more pills.

He could always take more pills.

And he had realized that now, there was nothing to preserve balance. This love would shrivel and fall away from him, and in return, he would only harm Wilson to match. And that's something House refused to do. He couldn't bring James down with him. He couldn't disappoint his friend anymore. James deserved better. And House was going to give it to him.

He had already begun some while ago – hurting Wilson after the love started to fail. He took more Vicodin, more isolation. He disappeared so Wilson wouldn't find him. Part of him wanted his friend's comfort. Most of him just wanted to be alone. Depression became so overwhelming sometimes, he had no motivation to speak or move or think. He just wanted to sleep. For good.

That's why he was doing this.

That's why he let the pills dissolve.

There wasn't any hope left for House.

But there was hope yet for Wilson.

As long as House lived, there was hope for Wilson.

House had to save him.

And then he could die in peace.

And let Wilson live.

Because House was a disease.

He was a cancer that the oncologist couldn't detect.

And just like any cancer, the only thing to do was remove it completely. Before it spread, before it won.

House was grim again. He couldn't see the windshield or the road or anything in front of him. He thought. He was dying. (And so was Wilson.)

Funny. He'd always felt this way – dying. He was just speeding it up now.

A car yelled at him.

"Hey! Watch where you're going, asshole!"

He didn't pay attention. His hand perched on the same spot of the steering wheel, good foot poised on the gas pedal – unyielding. He and his best friend were dying. The world could fucking wait.

He swerved into the hospital parking lot, veered into a handicapped parking space (even though he had refused a matching card and license plate), and yanked the key out of the ignition. He sat for a moment, night buzzing at his back. Moon glow paled the trees. The street noise had suddenly faded, and it was as quiet as his own driveway. The lot was relatively empty. He looked over and recognized Cuddy's Lexus a few yards away.

Wilson drove a Mercedes.

It wasn't here.

House clicked the door open and swung his feet out to touch the tar. He sighed. Reached back and grabbed his cane. Hesitated. Human sliver feared Wilson's condition. Blue eyes glimmered in a catch of light. Fingers tightened around despised wood. He pushed himself up. Suppressed a grunt. Staggered a little. Pills flowing through his legs.

Thomas Newman music. (Cuddy calling.) He let it play. Didn't answer.

House hobbled around the door, shut it, heaved up onto the sidewalk, trudged to the main entrance. The receptionist glanced at him, almost nervously. He didn't notice. Stepped into the elevator, rode it alone. He frowned through every floor, sagging on the cane, letting his vision blur and clear, blur and clear. The pain was beginning to dissipate. In his leg. He had never had this much Vicodin before.

Ding.

Limp.

Limp.

Limp.

"House."

He moved his eyes to Cuddy. She sighed. Didn't know how to explain. House knew it.

"They're prepping him for surgery. He was unconscious when they pulled him out of the car, due to a concussion; they put him through a full body MRI. Internal bleeding – in his stomach."

Surgery

Unconscious

Car

Concussion

MRI

Bleeding

House stared, blinked, waited. She expected him to answer. What was he supposed to say?

He turned his eyes away and plodded past her without a word. No one acknowledged him as he made his way toward the suspected operating room. Cuddy watched him go, no clue what to do or say. House could feel the drugs gushing through every vein, every capillary, streaming up into his brain, washing out his organs. The hall was dim. He stopped at the first and last operating room on his left – very end of the hall. The doors swung open and then closed behind him. The surgical team, clad in their blue scrubs and face masks, all turned to look at him.

"House?"

It was Hourani. Fuck.

"What are you doing here?"

House limped until he could see Wilson's face, pale and lifeless. Oxygen mask in place. Dark lashes still against cheeks. Blue from his neck to the last set of ribs. Blue from his hips to his feet. White belly shining in the legendary light. House moved his eyes. Metal tools gleaming on tray. Another tray – white hills of gauze – out of season. (It was April, not November.) Hourani stared, hands stopped in mid air – latex gloves. House ignored him. They had a defibrillator on hold in the shadows beyond.

"House?"

He looked at Hourani. The surgeon had never liked him. He had never liked the surgeon.

"He's Dr. Wilson's friend, sir," said one of the nurses, leaning toward Hourani.

"I don't give a damn. He can wait outside just like everybody else."

House stared.

His vision blurred again.

His hand was trembling.

"House, get out of here, right now."

Sweat.

Sway.

"Dr. House?" the nurse called.

His eyes were unfocused.

He realized that a heart monitor was beeping – Wilson's heart.

Sway.

"Dr. House, leave," Hourani pressed.

What tie had Wilson been wearing today?

"Dr. House?" The nurse was worried.

The pain in his heart was easing.

The organ slowed to numbness.

He took a step back.

Blue eyes dull.

Wilson.

Darkness.


	3. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow. So this next chapter wasn't so hard to write.

Thank you to my readers and reviewers. You're so appreciated.

No slash.

If you have their music, while writing this Chapter, I alternated between the songs **Forgive Me** and **Missing**, both by Evanescence.

Please Read and Review. Thanks.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even Wilson. (sob)

* * *

Chapter 2

The sky was blue and strung with white, cotton-ball clouds. The sun was out but not too bright. The wind cooled his face and blew through Wilson's hair like a model's fan. Their sunglasses gleamed. An upbeat song was on the radio. Somehow, the corvette was the brightest thing on the highway, red and shining like a maraschino cherry pulled out of a cocktail.

"We are so cool," he said.

Wilson smiled.

"You really should leave Julie. She cramps your style."

"Since when did I have style?"

"You're riding shotgun in this baby and wearing shades. You're every college girl's fantasy."

Wilson chuckled.

"Shouldn't that be you, since you're driving?"

"Nah. I'm more the object of every high-class hooker's fantasy. I have a lot of money, but I lack the hair factor which you have been so undeservingly blessed with."

Wilson was grinning.

Shudder

Flash

"So is this really more fun than eating fried potatoes with Ice Princess?"

Wilson tipped his head back and laughed, mouth full of lo mein and house fried rice. House smiled and dipped his chopsticks back into his carton.

"Much more fun," Wilson half-coughed as he swallowed.

This wasn't House's idea of Christmas. Chinese take-out and Wilson. But it wasn't anything like one of those annoying holiday movies, and he wasn't alone for once. He was satisfied.

"And Ice Princess isn't Jewish, so I don't know if we would've had fried potatoes," said Wilson, twirling the noodles around his sticks.

"You're Jewish, and you didn't marry a Jew?" House gasped in pseudo-shock. "Shame on you, Wilson. God is very pissed off."

Wilson grinned. "I'm not exactly an exemplary Jew anyway." He slipped more noodles in his mouth and jerked when some almost slipped out of the sticks, which he caught in his mouth at an unusual angle. House smiled to himself. Wilson really was a geek. An endearing geek, yes, but a geek nonetheless. His tie was loosened, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck. He always ended up relaxing when it was just he and House, out of the hospital.

"Oh," he said, interrupting his own eating. He set the carton and sticks down and got up. House watched him. "I forgot something." Wilson bent down near the door, and House heard him unzip his bag and rummage through it. He was surprised to see two presents, wrapped up in shiny paper and complete with bows, clutched in Wilson's hand. "Merry Christmas."

House decided not to ruin the moment with another snide remark. Instead, he just took the gifts from his friend and smiled softly as Wilson sat back down. He pulled off the bow, and Wilson smiled with more noodles hanging from his pursed lips. House stopped. Wilson looked at him inquisitively. House got up and limped away into his bedroom, leaving Wilson momentarily confused. Had he done something wrong?

But a minute later, House emerged again, carrying – oh, my, God – a box wrapped in shiny paper. Wilson gaped a little.

"Happy Christmas-hana-kwanza."

Wilson half-smiled, still gaping, and took the present from House, who sat back down. They started ripping off the paper. Wilson laughed.

"Oh, my God." He held up his new tie, made from something blue and shiny, with a goldfish at the bottom. "Are you serious?" he asked, still half-smiling.

"You don't like it?" House asked, pretending to be surprised and hurt. "I thought it was very you."

Wilson shook his head and lowered it back into the tissue paper. "You're unbelievable."

"If you don't wear it on Monday, we're over," said House. Wilson snorted and laughed.

"Oh, and this is nice," he said, holding up the latest issue of Playboy and Jerry Springer Uncensored on VHS.

"I know, isn't it?"

Wilson cocked an eyebrow.

"You're married to Ice Princess, remember?" said House. "You need a little porn. And Jerry Springer is hilarious."

Wilson rolled his eyes and put his loot back in the box.

"What, you don't enjoy watching fat, trailer-trash red necks strip and bitch-slap each other over infidelity and paternity tests?"

Wilson just smiled helplessly at him.

"Well, James," House started. "I guess this means we're now in a committed relationship." He set his new, bright red bowl on the table; it had a big sticker slapped on it, reading VICODIN. Wilson grinned.

"I just figured it would look good on your desk."

"Oh, and this is lovely." House held up the black T-shirt, white letters blazing BITE ME.

"You don't like it?" Wilson echoed. "I thought it was very you." He couldn't keep from smirking.

"Smart ass," said House and put it back down in the tissue paper. He lay the box on the table and shoved it away a little. "So now that we're all set for domestic bliss -- "

"Wait," Wilson interrupted. "You still have one last thing."

House looked at him curiously and pulled the box back. He rummaged until he found a much smaller, velvet box.

"You're proposing on Christmas Eve? You're a hopeless romantic, Wilson."

James rolled his eyes again.

House popped it open. Gold gleam. It was a pin – a musical note. He smiled.

"Well," he said in a softer tone. "We'll have to have the wedding in Massachusetts, and Cuddy will be absolutely heart-broken – but I think we can manage."

Wilson smiled and sipped at his beer. House popped the box closed. He pushed himself up again and began limping toward the piano.

"This calls for some real music," he said.

And his last memory of that night was playing the piano, while Wilson leaned against it with his beer in hand.

The first Monday of the New Year, when they had gone back to work, Wilson wore his fish tie. The red Vicodin bowl sat on House's desk, and the pin gleamed on his coat collar.

* * *

"Dr. House?"

He snapped into reality.

"Dr. House, can you hear me?"

Cuddy? Damn it, why wouldn't she leave him alone?

He lifted one eye open and peered at her exasperated faced.

"Do you ever give up?" he asked, surprised that his voice hadn't abandoned him.

She sighed, obviously not happy. "What the hell were you thinking?" she almost yelled, straightening. He opened the other eye.

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

"Like hell you don't," she shouted. "You overdosed on Vicodin, you bastard. You almost died."

"Well, yeah. That was kind of the point."

Cuddy's eyes widened.

"Thanks so much for ruining it." House tried to sit up, pushing up against his pillow. He was hooked up to an IV drip. The room started spinning. He sunk back down.

"What are you saying?" Her voice was quivering, though whether on the verge of rage or some other emotion, House couldn't tell.

"You're a smart girl, Cuddy," he said, closing his eyes to try to fend off the dizziness. "You figure it out."

He was suddenly weaker than he'd ever been before. His sweat chilled his neck, his breathing felt too slow. His hands were cold. He felt nauseous. He could hear his own heartbeat – not the monitor. He felt like he was about to pass out again. He lay still, pressed back into the pillow, kept his eyes shut. But he was still spinning.

"You tried to kill yourself?"

The words felt like taboo, and they came quietly from Cuddy's lips. House breathed for a moment.

"If you don't want to use the word _suicide_, then yes."

He didn't see the anger melt from her face and leave shock, almost sadness. A long silence stretched between them. The heart monitor kept beeping.

"Why?" she breathed. It was almost a whisper.

"Because," he hissed. "I'm tired of this – tired of you, tired of Stacey and Vogler and this hospital and myself. I'm tired of pain. And I'm not going to put up with it anymore."

Cuddy was silent. He waited another moment. He tried to make his breath, his heart beat normal.

"And if it wasn't for Wilson and his God damn accident, I would be home, dead."

Nothing. No answer.

"So damn you and damn this hospital and damn Wilson. Go to hell."

He opened his eyes.

Tears were running down her motionless face.

He sighed, closed them again.

He heard her heels clicking away after a moment.

Cuddy didn't show up again, and some nurse came in an hour later to check up on him. The drugs were still in his veins. He could feel them. But they had pumped out most of them – or so he thought. All he could do was lie there and breathe, passing in and out of dizzy spells and consciousness, wondering what had happened to Wilson. He took a drink of water from the plastic cup the nurse had left on the table. He lapsed back into depression, but at least he wasn't in pain. He'd taken enough Vicodin to relieve him of that for a while.

He slept through the night and woke up to see the twilight sifting through the blinds. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and decided to get the hell out of here. His cane was propped up against the wall, near the door. He struggled from the bed to that door, dragging his drip along with him and squeezing it whenever another dizzy spell came or when he felt too tired to keep standing. At last, his empty hand came around the familiar arch of wood, and he sighed. Blue eyes filled with resolve and uncured pain, he opened the door somehow and limped out.

At first, he was too disoriented to figure out which hall he was in, on what floor. Room 221. Three floors below the operating room. Damn it. He mapped out the hospital in his head and began to move. He reached the bathroom first, where he proceeded to empty out his already empty stomach. He was amazed that some Goddamn nurse hadn't caught up with him already to force him back to bed. He wandered until he found one.

"Where's Dr. Wilson?" He was breathing heavy, leaning too much on his cane. She looked at him worriedly.

"Are you his patient, Sir?" she asked.

He shook his head and closed his eyes. Light headed. "No. Where is he?"

"He was – in an accident, sir." She watched him with shining, black eyes – unsure what to do. She could hear his labored breaths. "Maybe we should get you back to bed, huh?" She motioned to take his drip and touch his shoulder, but he pulled away.

"Where is he?" he repeated. "Is he alive?"

She hesitated.

"I need to know – is he alive?" He lifted his eyes open again and their blue wasn't piercing anymore. Just out of focus. He was so out of focus.

"Yes," she said finally. He closed his eyes again and sighed, relief washing over him that felt just like a wave. "He's alive. He was in surgery last night. He's – in Room 324."

"I need to see him," House muttered, swaying again.

"It's really early, sir. You should go back to sleep."

"No, God damn it." He pulled away again. "I need to see Dr. Wilson."

She waited a minute before agreeing, and they began the seemingly eternal journey to Wilson's room. She helped him into the elevator, and they rode it together in silence until it dinged. The wheels of his drip rolled audibly on the tiles. He limped against his cane, plodding down the halls with the Asian nurse walking to his pace. No one ever did that but Wilson.

A few times he could have sworn he was about to pass out, but he made it to Room 324 at last. The nurse pushed the door open as quietly as she could and peeked in before letting House through.

"He needs to rest," she whispered. "We almost lost him. I'll give you a few minutes." He limped past her without so much as a nod and sunk into the empty chair at the bedside. She backed out of the room and closed the door, but not before watching House through a crack for a minute. He sighed again, dizzy and weak and still nauseous. His hand shook, but he didn't notice. He lifted his head after catching his breath and took a good look at his best friend.

Wilson was sleeping, heart monitor beeping, cut screaming out where it slid down over his pale skin – above his right eye brow and then down past it. A bruise colored his left cheekbone – a deep shade of purple. He was still wearing a neck brace, and the oxygen mask hadn't left either. His arm lay upturned on the bed, tubes flowing from his wrist. House was alarmed to feel his own eyes sting. He bit his lip. His poor Wilson. House had never seen him like this, not in all the years they'd known each other. Wilson was always so okay, and now suddenly, he wasn't anymore.

He dropped his head back down. Oh, God. Everything was so fucked up. He'd tried to kill himself and failed. Wilson had almost been totaled with his car. Cuddy knew House was emotionally unstable and probably thought he was mentally too. He wasn't okay again, and neither was Wilson. How could he keep living? How could he bear this turmoil and not lose his mind? Maybe he already had. Wake up from near-death to find out your best friend was dead – how could he have almost done that to Wilson? What kind of friend – what kind of man was he?

Shuddering breath.

He pressed his palm into his leaking eye. His shoulders trembled.

He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't take it anymore. He didn't deserve to live, didn't deserve Wilson, and Wilson didn't deserve to be hurt like this, by him.

He needed to finish what he started.

He needed to leave.

But Wilson wouldn't understand. Wilson needed him.

God damn it, he was trapped.

He was trapped.

He lifted his head, wiping his face before light had the chance to catch signs of humanity. Wilson looked defeated – vulnerable in a way that scared House. James always did seem vulnerable to House, just because he was softer and he had those eyes that said everything he felt. James wasn't afraid to feel or to let people in or to have his heart lay out in the open. And for that, he always ended up being disappointed or hurt. He just wouldn't learn. But House was glad. House was glad Wilson wasn't like him.

But this time, vulnerability made James seem so fragile; it was a death sentence. No one could be that delicate and survive in the world. House felt like James would shatter the second he tried to move, like if he touched his friend, every limb would break and the heart monitor would stop beeping. He couldn't kill James. And he couldn't let anyone else kill him either. He just didn't know how he was going to save Wilson and keep living afterward.

He didn't want to live anymore.

But at the same time, he did.

That little human piece –

The piece that remembered life before his infarction

The piece that remembered Wilson

And the way they were

And the way James smiled and the way James laughed and the way James took care of him

Even the way James yelled at him

And the way Wilson's voice rose with worry

And the way those brown eyes looked at him

That piece wanted life.

That piece wanted to be okay.

That piece remembered Christmas with Wilson and the way James had gaped when House had given him those monster truck tickets and the way they fit so perfectly in that speeding corvette and the way James had quivered that night when House had lain a hand on his shoulder, after James had told him about his lost, older brother.

That piece remembered the way James smiled into his straw when they ate lunch together, the way they had both laughed the summer before House's infarction when House had turned the garden hose on Wilson (he could still see the golden sun and the way James' wet hair dripped and the way James had thrown him down in the grass and taken revenge with that Goddamn hose), the way Wilson looked when he slept (laid across House's couch, one more night of avoiding his wife).

And that piece wanted it all back.

That piece wanted to live, wanted to be okay again, wanted to laugh and make Wilson laugh with him.

But the hole in his heart made him dizzy and nauseous and told him that he could never live like that again.

All he had now was Vicodin.

House didn't stop the next tear.

He couldn't see Wilson clearly.

He pushed himself up and stood for a while, looking down at James. He lay his hand on Wilson's brow, pushed his hair back, and turned away, limping back toward the door.

And he didn't even have time to think before he passed out in the hall.

And he wasn't dreaming when his body began to seize, and the Asian nurse called for help.


	4. Chapter 3

A/N: Ah, finally some real House/Wilson angst. How cute could two men possible be together?

OMG. Babies and Bathwater! The House/Wilson scene! WHO ELSE SQUEED? Wilson almost cried! And House's face! So sad! And at the end - Wilson was drinking champagne out of House's mug while sitting in House's chair! WHOO! THEIR LOVE IS TRUE. GOD LOVE THE WRITERS! (bows down before the writers)

Thanks to all my supporters.

Please Read and Review.

No slash intended.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Not even Wilson. Or Robert Sean Leonard. (sigh) Life sucks.

* * *

Chapter 3

Inhale

Smile

Exhale

Brown eyes

Inhale

Pain

Exhale

Wilson

He mumbled but couldn't form James' name with his lips, and he was almost scared for a moment that his brain had forgotten how. He tried to open his eyes but his body had stopped listening to his mind. Sounds started breaking through the dark, and he recognized that heart monitor beeping and his own breathing. James. He needed James. He clenched the sheets when he couldn't force his eyes open. He grunted when he couldn't say the name. Damn it. Open!

Finally. Obedience. He looked down since the light hurt his eyes.

Straps.

Buckles.

He was strapped to the bed.

Holy shit.

"Nurse!" he shouted. He grabbed the clicker and forced it to scream. "Nurse!" He pushed it incessantly.

She scuttled in, wearing white. Why did doctors and nurses always wear white? Did they really think that highly of themselves? They were no angels. They weren't innocent. They weren't perfect or good. They sucked, just like everybody else. He was sick of white. And that's why he refused to wear it.

"Yes, Dr. House?" She must've been in her late forties or early fifties. She had a few wrinkles and her hair looked dry.

"What the hell is this?" he snapped.

"What is what?"

"I'm strapped to the Goddamn bed."

"Oh. That. You had a seizure, Dr. House. The straps are – for the seizure. We don't want you to hurt yourself."

_Or try killing myself again._

"The seizure was because of my overdose. Now get these Goddamn straps off."

"I'll have to ask Dr. Cuddy her permission first, sir."

"Goddamn it. I've got a fucking Ph.D. too. And I'm ordering you to let me out of these Goddamn straps."

"I'm sorry, sir. I have to talk to Dr. Cuddy." She looked at House nervously. With any other patient, she would've protested the bad language, but this was Dr. House after a drug overdose. She began to back away slowly. He stared at her in disbelief, becoming more and more pissed off by the second. She turned away and opened the door.

"I want to see Wilson."

She stopped.

"You tell Cuddy that. I want to see Wilson."

She didn't turn back to face him. One more moment, and she left.

* * *

Cuddy had come to see Wilson at last. She flipped through his charts, nibbled on her lip, and asked the nurse to take the oxygen mask away for a minute. It had been long enough since the surgery; he should be awake. She leaned toward him and touched his shoulder, calling him softly. But he was still barely conscious and he only said one thing.

"House…"

"Dr. Wilson? Can you hear me?"

His eyes rolled. "House…"

The nurse put the oxygen mask back in place. Wilson's eyes slipped open and closed. House…. Where was Greg? Where was he? What was going on?

"Dr. Wilson, it's Lisa Cuddy. Can you look at me?"

Cuddy, Cuddy…. Who was that? Oh, God, his head hurt. Where was House? House should be here.

"House…"

"Dr. House isn't here now, James. Can you please look at me?"

"I want House…" Wilson mumbled, almost whimpering, eyes still closed. Cuddy looked helplessly at the nurse, who didn't quite shrug.

"Should I go get Dr. House, ma'am?"

Cuddy stared at Wilson and noted his furrowed brow.

"No," she said. "Dr. House isn't fit to get out of bed."

The nurse bowed her head and didn't protest, but she was clearly disappointed. It was hard not to want to give Wilson whatever he asked for when he lay there with that voice. Cuddy sighed and straightened. She walked out without a word.

* * *

House lay in bed with a somber face. He remembered – thoughts kept running through his head, memories kept abusing his conscience. Wilson was too deep in his system.

"_No kids, my marriage sucks... I only have two things that work for me: this job and this stupid, screwed up friendship, and neither mattered enough to you to make one stupid speech."_

"_They matter."_

If their friendship mattered to him, if Wilson mattered, than why the hell had he overdosed? Why the hell couldn't he overcome his pain? He was the only human being that Wilson really loved, and he'd almost killed himself. If hadn't been for Wilson's accident, he would have succeeded. James saves him again. Fuck. He sighed. He hadn' t known he could hate himself this much.

Wilson's heart-broken expression burned in his mind again.

Oh, God, he couldn't deal with this.

How could he ever do that to Wilson?

He couldn't forget the way Wilson's voice had broken that day, as he packed away his only other joy into boxes. He had seen the gleam in Wilson's eyes. He'd been deathly afraid for a second that Wilson would start crying, and he wouldn't know what to do. But Wilson had remained dry-faced and agreed to help House out one more time. Even after all that. Jesus, he didn't deserve such a friend. Needless to say, once Vogler had been fired, House had thoroughly enjoyed drinking champagne with James, even Chase and Foreman had been there to share in the celebration.

How was he going to explain himself now?

Would Cuddy tell Wilson first?

He half-wanted her to, half-wanted to do it himself. He wished he'd never have to mention it. But that wasn't an option, he knew all too well. Wilson would wonder why he was here, hooked up to just as many tubes, and lying to him about what had happened would bring hell later if Wilson ever discovered it on his own. And House couldn't bear to damage their friendship anymore than he already had, even if Wilson didn't realize it yet.

He should've used a gun.

Next time.

* * *

Cuddy stood at her office window, but she couldn't see past the blinds. Thoughts plagued her. House asked for Wilson. Wilson asked for House. Neither got an answer. And it was up to her. Their medical conditions aside, they were both emotionally unstable at the moment, especially House. And she honestly didn't know how Wilson would react when he finally found out that when he had the accident, House had been in the middle of suicide. They could very well explode into a fight, and anger was the last thing either body needed. Wilson was still very delicate, and she wasn't about to let House out of his bed, let alone out of his room. She doubted his mental stability now, and she knew the straps weren't just in case of another seizure.

She sighed. Wilson almost dying would have been drama enough for this place, but House just made it insanity. His team had been informed by now, and they would be in tomorrow morning. She didn't doubt that by then, the whole hospital, if not the whole medical field within a ten-mile radius, would know about House's attempted suicide. It would do wonders for their reputation. Not that House cared anyway. She bowed her head into her hand.

What had House been thinking? Really? He had told her all the bullshit about pain and being tired, but she knew it went much deeper than just that. She supposed that things had been especially overwhelming lately but to drive him unto death? The thought must have been there inside him for a much longer time to surface now. She had somehow known that it was Wilson's silent fear. She had noticed the way James looked at House some time ago – those brown eyes watching his friend down pill after pill after pill. He never said a word, but it was all there in those eyes – sadness and sympathy, frustration and pain. Fear. He didn't know what to do for House any more than the rest of the world did, and he was the one who cared most of all. She guessed that Wilson had decided giving House continuous Vicodin prescriptions might make up for his own inability to help the man. She didn't know much about House or Wilson, (since they were both private, quiet creatures) but she knew that Wilson loved House and she knew that House was a real bastard to him sometimes. This weekend had topped everything.

Cuddy had often watched House laze around in his office, rocking to his headphones or playing on his Gameboy, and she had wondered if beneath all that, great human needs resided. She knew he hadn't dated anyone in months, if not years, and the only friend he had was Wilson. And half the time, that was only because Wilson was too damn stubborn (or too damn lonely) to leave him alone. House had a lot of issues, but one of the most prominent concerned intimacy. She had doubts about whether or not he still knew _how _to be intimate with someone. And Wilson – Wilson had martial problems, though she didn't know much more than that. The two spent all of their time at work, as most doctors do, and when she really thought about it, Wilson didn't seem to have any other friends either. Oh, sure, he had coworkers. They _all_ had coworkers. And maybe sometimes they'd go out for a beer together, but that was it. The only one Wilson ever spent any real time with was House. She had watched them leave together enough times to know that they did things outside of work. And she'd even heard that Wilson had spent Christmas Eve at House's place, regardless of his wife. She remembered the first week of the year that the hospital had resumed function. She'd run into Wilson somewhere and complimented him on his unusually cute tie – something blue with a goldfish on it. He had smiled and thanked her.

"Christmas present?" she'd asked.

"Yeah, actually."

"Your wife thought it was cute?"

"No," Wilson had blushed. "Dr. House."

And she'd smiled. Wilson was cute. Wilson and House together were even cuter. And to have House and "cute" in the same sentence was something to behold. Greg wasn't really something you thought of as being similar to bunnies or cotton candy.

And it had taken her a few weeks to pay a visit to House's office, where she noticed his new Vicodin bowl on the desk.

"Developing generosity?" she'd said.

"Nice," he'd replied. "And no, actually. Wilson thought it'd be a nice touch."

She'd also noticed the musical note pin on his jacket collar one day, but she hadn't asked about it.

Ah, House. When was he going to realize he had something to live for? When was he going to realize that someone did love him? When was he going to realize that he needed to stop being a jackass? Never, perhaps. But the least he could do was acknowledge that Wilson, in all of his pure-hearted goodness, cared for him almost incessantly. Then, if God deemed House worthy of a miracle, he could start to appreciate and reciprocate that love. Maybe it was just her being female, but she could sense that Wilson was in dire need of some affection. No one was succeeding in providing him with any, least of all his wife, and it seemed like the only person that he wanted it from was House. And perhaps if House weren't so damn anal retentive about personal space, Wilson would simply ask or act on his own. But even with Wilson, House had formed an invisible wall around himself, always keeping his distance in one way or another.

Or maybe she just didn't know enough. No one could know better than House and Wilson. They spent a lot of time away from other people, so perhaps it wasn't what it seemed. But she hadn't forgotten any of the times that Wilson had defended House against whatever threatening powers, didn't miss the way Wilson kept up with House's stride in a way that no one else did. Sometimes they would stand so close together, walk close enough to brush, and Wilson could say things to House that no one else could.

Someone knocked.

"Dr. Cuddy?" It was that nurse.

"What is it?"

"Dr. House wants to see Dr. Wilson. He keeps asking."

Cuddy waited for a while in silence.

"Let him out of bed. Make him use a wheelchair."

* * *

House wheeled himself in, nurse trailing behind him with his drip at a discreet distance. Wilson didn't look any different from when House had first visited him, but he soon saw that Wilson was awake this time. James took steady, concentrated breaths and only turned his head to look at House when House was almost at his bed. He smiled behind the oxygen mask, and House gave him a weak smile back. The wheelchair stopped right against the bed, and the nurse left House's drip behind him. They were alone at last.

"Hi," said Wilson, voice muffled in the mask.

"Hey," said House softly.

"Good to see you."

"Good to see you too."

Wilson's eyes had warmed, almost as if he were strong again.

"Don't look too pretty, do I?" he said, taking a deep breath halfway through.

"Better than your car, I would imagine," said House. Wilson winced.

"How bad is it?"

"They said it was totaled. But who cares? We have the corvette."

Wilson smiled. House looked away and thought.

"How are you feeling?" he asked absently.

"I'm okay," said Wilson quietly. He was falling asleep again.

"You have enough pain meds?"

"Yeah," Wilson sighed. "It's fine."

The morphine clicker lay untouched on the bed, near Wilson's hand. House reached out, telling himself he was going to put the clicker in Wilson's hand. Instead, he grabbed the hand instead. Wilson opened his eyes and looked at him tenderly.

"You'll be okay," said House. But Wilson wasn't the one who needed reassuring. House forced a smile. "You'll be okay."

And a long while passed in silence, the heart monitor beeping while House's thumb stroked over Wilson's fingers. Neither man's grip was tight, but they were satisfied with the warmth trapped in between their palms. Wilson was tempted to fall asleep, comforted by House's presence, but he never quite let himself. House kept thinking, kept staring into space, kept stroking.

And then it came.

"Why – why the wheelchair?"

House looked up at James.

"And a – drip?"

He didn't answer at once.

"You're tired, James," he said at last. "You should get some sleep." He began to pull away, but Wilson clung to his hand.

"Tell me," he said. "What happened?"

House stared at him with tormented blue eyes.

"Greg." Wilson sounded out of breath now. House hung his head.

"When you… had the accident… I was home. And…"

He paused. Wilson waited, still holding to House's hand.

"I… took some Vicodin. Too much…"

Wilson looked at him, confused, forehead creasing and eyes glimmering.

"Too much?"

"Yeah…" said House. "I… overdosed."

"On accident?" said Wilson. "Were you drunk?"

House peered at him guiltily, like a cornered child who had stolen something.

"No, Wilson," he said softly. "I was sober. It wasn't an accident."

Wilson's face contorted further. House sighed.

"I tried to kill myself, James. I wanted to die."

Oh, yeah, that was gentle. Good job, House.

"What?" Wilson's voice was shaking more than it had ever before. House wanted to die again.

"I just got so tired," he said. "Of pain and life and…"

He stopped. Tears had rolled down Wilson's cheeks, but he didn't stop staring at House. House believed his heart had now truly been ripped out. He didn't bother with any more pathetic excuses. Nothing excused abandonment. Wilson didn't let go of his hand. House watched him cry with painful blue eyes for just a moment, before he hung his head in shame when he couldn't take it anymore. He had nothing else to say. Wilson didn't know what the hell to say. Awkward silence allowed only for the monitor beeping and Wilson's tears.

House almost winced when Wilson whimpered.

And Wilson, amid the torrent of emotions that he couldn't identify, didn't know why was crying. House didn't die, wasn't it okay? Why did it hurt so much?

"I know it doesn't mean much…" House began, almost whispering. "But I'm sorry. It was a stupid thing to do. A selfish thing." Of course, if he didn't have Wilson, it wouldn't have been stupid or selfish. Because then, he really would have nothing and no one to live for. But James made it different.

Wilson couldn't stop crying, no matter how much he wanted to. He couldn't stop the pain in his chest. He'd almost lost House. Oh, God. He'd almost lost him. And he hadn't been enough to keep his friend from trying. He hadn't been enough to stop the pain. He had failed in making life bearable. He'd failed. He was a bad friend. He was worthless. He should kill himself too, and they should all fucking die and be done with it. He couldn't catch his breath -- too many sobs, too many tears. His nose was running now too, but he didn't care. His eyes were flooded and he couldn't see. They had already turned red.

House bit on his lip. His eyes stung. But he couldn't cry. He had no reason to cry. He didn't deserve to cry. He had to be strong for Wilson. Actually, he just needed to fucking leave. James didn't deserve this shit. But Wilson wouldn't let go of his hand.

Oh, God, he was a bad friend. That's all Wilson could think of now. Over and over, it ripped at his heart and his brain. He squinted, tears too thick and pouring out. It hurt. Oh, it hurt so much. Instead of running to House and saving him, he'd gotten in a car accident. How could he? It didn't make any sense, but he didn't care. He had failed. And he had come perilously close to waking up from this without anyone to greet him – no blue eyes. He had given House the Vicodin, it was his fault. If it weren't for him, House wouldn't have had anything to overdose on. If it weren't for his inadequacy, House wouldn't even need pills for the pain. If it weren't for his failings, House's life wouldn't be worthless. If it weren't for him, House would have had someone to stop him. It wouldn't have happened. But it had. His fears, his nightmare had come true. And it was his fault. It was his fault, and he was a bad friend. And therefore, a bad human being.

Wilson sobbed and whimpered. House was in agony. All he could do was reach over and pull out a tissue for his friend, offering it to him pathetically. And when Wilson didn't take it, didn't even notice, House dried his tears and wiped his nose, but Wilson just kept crying.

Life couldn't be more fucked up. And it was all House's fault. He was the world's evilest bastard, even worse than Vogler. He couldn't solve his own problems, couldn't be happy, couldn't deal with his life. He couldn't be with people, he couldn't love anyone. Sometimes he even wondered if he loved Wilson. But not now. Now, he knew. Because it wouldn't hurt this much if he didn't. But obviously, he didn't love Wilson enough. He didn't even believe he could anymore.

"I'm sorry," Wilson choked, trembling with tears.

House looked at him sharply.

"What?"

"S-sorry," Wilson mewled. House frowned and got to his feet, leaning over and taking Wilson's face in his hands.

"Listen to me," he murmured, blue eyes burning into Wilson's brown. Wilson's tears seared his flesh, and Wilson's eyes wounded his soul. "You have nothing to be sorry for. It had nothing to do with you. It isn't your fault." James shuddered. House's leg was quaking dangerously. "You're the only reason I'm alive." Wilson stared at him with his tears.

"Then why?" Wilson cried. "Why? Why would you want to leave unless I'm not good enough?" House's eyes stung and his chest constricted. He breathed. His hands were wet with Wilson's tears.

"Because I'm in pain," he whispered.

"Because I'm not good enough to stop it."

"No," House hissed. "It's not you. It's not your fault, it's not even your responsibility."

"You're my friend," said Wilson. "It'll always be my responsibility."

House sunk a little, his eyes gleaming. God, he couldn't cry.

"It's not your fault," he said again. Every word was a whisper now. "I'm the one with the problem, not you."

"You only have a problem because I can't fix it," said Wilson.

House shut his eyes. "I only have a problem because I can't fix myself." Wilson fought not to scream. His whole chest quivered inside with pain. "And you're the only reason why I even want to bother trying anymore."

The heart monitor hadn't stopped beeping, but they couldn't hear it. Wilson's oxygen mask was foggy. House's drip worked without acknowledgment. Wilson whimpered again, cutting himself off by biting on his lip too hard. And finally, House leaned further, lifted Wilson up, and wrapped his arms around his friend. Wilson snaked his arms around House's neck and cried into House's shoulder. House's leg was shaking almost violently. They hadn't hugged for years. Wilson was completely destroyed now, and House experienced a new pain – raw and fresh, awakened by this touch he had lived without for so long. And at last, he let his own tears come, knowing they would only touch Wilson's shoulder and go unseen.


	5. Chapter 4

A/N: Bad writing sucks.

Sorry for the delay.

Thanks to all of my readers.

* * *

Chapter 4

House cracked his eyes open and made out the bleary figure of a woman in a white dress. She was fat. She was a nurse. And she was watching him from the doorway.

"What are you doing?" he crooned in annoyance. She grinned bashfully. Her lip-gloss had glitter in it. Her hands were clutched against her stomach.

"I just came to check up on you," she said, making it sound like an excuse. Which it was. To House, anyway.

"Does that require standing idly in the door and watching me sleep?"

She shook her head as if she were caught eating a doughnut when she wasn't supposed to, and her mouth turned into a deflated O. "I – I didn't mean -- "

"Forget it," said House. Wilson made a sound and moved against him. "Just leave."

She nodded and smiled again, backing out of the room. House rolled his eyes. Christ.

Wilson was curled against him, head on his shoulder, sleeping. His arm was draped across House's chest, his fingers loosely curled into House's shoulder. He held on to House as if he might really lose him, and every time House moved, his grip tightened. House stared over at him quietly. The oxygen mask was foggy. The tears were dry. Wilson looked so – fragile, sleeping like that. House chewed on his lip. Wilson's hair touched his cheek. He let himself tilt his head against Wilson's and rest it there.

He did not close his eyes. He couldn't stop thinking. He could feel Wilson breathing, chest moving against his arm, and it gave him no peace. Wilson was comfort. He hadn't had that in years. Maybe he could live after all, if life continued to be like this – Wilson sleeping with him.

He winced.

That sounded so wrong.

Wilson shifted, pushing up into House's cheek and stretching. He moved his arm down; it rested on House's belly now, hand limp. House might've squirmed awkwardly were anyone else draped upon him like this, but he only held Wilson close and stared quietly. He was careful to make sure that Wilson didn't move his head too much, since the concussion rendered it delicate. He discreetly restrained Wilson's body from moving too much, simply by holding his friend and thereby satisfying Wilson enough to repress most desire to shift. The nurse had relieved Wilson of the oxygen mask, but it was hung up on his drip just in case. House listened to Wilson's breathing too, monitoring better than any machine could for hitches or irregularity. The ribs were broken and wrapped, and he was sure that every muscle must ache in James' body. House did his best to cradle Wilson with his own flesh.

He decided that heart monitors made poetic sounds. Especially when they played Wilson's beat.

Wilson made a sound and stirred. House looked at him with silent blues. The damaged chest rubbed against the whole ribs; the cotton made love even without limbs. The warmth was too perfect to be something that could last without any intervals of pause. The knowledge that this love was constant made House still. It chastised him – he stopped believing in constancy after Stacy left. He'd overlooked Wilson.

His friend moved again. House kept staring. More sounds. More beeping art. House caught an unexpected whiff of Wilson's cologne, now faded after a few days since he must've put it on. He'd never really watched Wilson sleep, though God knows the younger doctor had spent countless nights on his couch. Wilson liked his couch – the leather one in the living room. It was Wilson's couch. Even House knew that. And House owned it.

House listened to Wilson breathe. He felt it too. He tried to feel it with his own chest -- the middle – where his heart pumped lazily. Wilson opened his eyes.

"How's the breathing?" House asked.

"Fine."

Silence. House moved his hand back and forth over a patch of Wilson's side. It soothed the ache. It made Wilson feel better.

"Julie hasn't touched me in months." Wilson stared into space, head still on House's shoulder. House's eyes moved. He didn't know what to say. It wasn't news that the relationship was dead.

"Do you miss it?" Wilson asked.

"What?"

"The touch of a woman."

House sighed with closed lips. "You know I don't want anyone else."

Wilson knew House had never gotten over Stacy or the way she'd left. "At least you have someone to belong to."

"Yeah," House drawled. "Except it kind of sucks when it's not mutual."

"I don't even want her anymore," said Wilson. "That's the worst part."

"It's not your fault."

"Third time around, it must be."

They let silence follow for a while, until House spoke again.

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Miss it?"

Wilson waited for a minute, body shaped against House's.

"I miss affection."

House had that look on his face again – the human one. Sad blue eyes.

"Sometimes you just want someone to be loving toward you, you know?" Wilson continued. "Wives are supposed to do that."

"Yeah," said House. "Women are supposed to do a lot of things."

Wilson sighed this time. "So are we."

"We don't always deserve their crap, though."

"Guess not." They paused again. "Maybe I wasn't meant to have a family."

House shut his eyes, cheek resting against Wilson's soft hair. "It's not so bad," he said. "Not having one."

"What about when we're old?"

"You can come to my place."

Wilson smiled weakly. But then the smile faded.

"Do you want to live to be old?"

House didn't answer at once.

"Honestly." Wilson's voice cracked.

"I want to –." House was afraid. How could he say anything? How could he be honest? He didn't know how to be honest or human. He knew how to isolate himself. He knew how to ignore his own emotions. He knew how to be a bastard. He didn't think he knew how to be a good friend.

Wilson waited.

House steeled himself.

"I want to do the right thing."

Wilson smiled a sad smile. "You never stop wanting to be right."

"I typically am."

"Yeah," said Wilson, voice shaking. "You typically are."

House waited. "But not this time."

Wilson moved his head against House's shoulder and looked up at his friend. "Not this time?"

House's blue eyes shackled him with contrition. "No," he said. "Not this time."

Wilson's eyes shone. House had named their color "truth" years ago. "And next time?"

Their faces were mere inches apart, and House could still feel Wilson's heart beating against him, as he tried to drown out the monitor beeping. They were lying under a thin net of tubes, tangled in their own life support, and they might've used it as an excuse to stay together. They needed each other to breathe now. No one else could pick up these pieces.

"There isn't going to be a next time."

Wilson's breath hitched.

"You want to live?"

House's eyes searched Wilson's.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I don't want to do this to you."

Wilson frowned. "I don't want you to live just for me. No one should have to live like you do."

House sighed. "Why can't you ever be easily satisfied?"

"Because I care. So if you're going to live, then you're going to make some changes."

"Since when did you become my dictator?"

"House – you're a Vicodin addict who attempted suicide. I don't think you're the best candidate to rule your own life right now."

House rolled his eyes, but Wilson was serious.

"I'm not coming off the Vicodin," he said. "We've been through this."

Wilson bit his lip. "Fine. But that's not the only thing you could change."

"You want me to wear different shirts?"

This time Wilson rolled his eyes, and House had to stop himself from smiling at the old reaction from his friend.

"No," said James. "I want you to get some therapy."

"You mean you're resigning from the job?" House replied, but his sarcasm snuffed out when he realized Wilson meant it.

"I think it's the best thing for you," said Wilson. "If you don't want to come off the drugs, then you at least need to get emotionally organized."

"I'm not going to a shrink," Housed dismissed. He'd left mellow and gone to defensive.

"Why not?" Wilson said helplessly. "You could do it on your own time, nobody would know. You can't just go back to the way things were, and you damn well know it, House. You really think Cuddy's not going to force it on you anyway?"

"I'm not going," said House. Despite the tension, they remained in their embrace.

"You can't keep living like this. You'll try again if you don't get help, I don't care what you say." House looked away from him, not wanting to listen to any of this. "And besides." Wilson's voice softened. "Do you really want to keep feeling this way?"

"Telling an apathetic stranger about my life isn't going to solve a damn thing."

"Well, what have you got to lose? You don't tell anyone who cares."

"_You_ know everything," said House.

"Bullshit," said Wilson. "I know what's happened. I don't know what you're thinking, and I obviously didn't know how you were feeling. No one else does either, and you know it. You've done this to yourself. You've shut everyone out. And if you don't want to talk to me about it, fine. But talk to someone. Anyone. I don't care. But things can't be the same."

House stared at him again.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I know," Wilson grimaced. "But you need help."

"Why can't I just get my help from you?" House's voice was soft now.

"Would you let me help you?"

House nodded.

"I mean really help you," said Wilson. "Would you talk to me about all of this? Everything you've never talked about before?"

House waited, still staring, but nodded again. Wilson sighed.

"Okay," he said, now exhausted all over again from the talk. "But I still doubt you'll get out of therapy as long as Cuddy's still got a say."

House tried to shrug. "I'll deal with her when I have to." He didn't mention what he'd said to her that first night in the hospital.

Wilson settled again, head clear and painless on the middle ground between House's shoulder and chest. His eyes shone out into the empty space, into the sound of his own heart turned into something mechanical. And he didn't hear it. All he heard was House. He listened to House's silence. He listened to the involuntary throb from within. And for the first time, he realized that the sound penetrated bone, muscle, fat, blood, and skin – all just to reach another person's ears.

He listened. House stared blankly too. His eyes were brighter – a pale blue now. Wilson's were warmer – darker in color but not disposition. Wilson's hair could move, where House's couldn't, unless touched by wind or fingers. House looked older. Wilson was quieter. Neither were strangers to pain. Or rejection.

"Thirsty?" asked Wilson.

"No," said House. "You?"

"I want a beer."

House smiled.

"Ask Cuddy."

Wilson snorted.

House kept smiling.

"I want some Vicodin," he said. Just because he had the balls.

"I'll go down to the pharmacy and get you some," said Wilson, hiding the twinge in his stomach at House's words. House almost laughed.

"You know – some might say you're the bitch in this relationship," he remarked.

"That's okay. You're Cuddy's bitch."

House did laugh this time. Wilson smiled. House liked it when Wilson smiled.

"Why did they let you sleep in here?" Wilson asked.

"Because I'm God."

Wilson chuckled. House grew more self-satisfied.

"Not quite."

"Okay – because I'm Cuddy's bitch?"

"Maybe. But I think it's more because you're a jerk."

House grinned. "Nice."

Wilson's breath hitched. House stopped smiling. "James?"

James was silent after sucking in air like a vacuum. His eyes were wide, and he moved, gripping House's leg.

"Shit!" House hissed, pain slamming into his thigh, courtesy of Wilson's fingers. Wilson, on the other hand, couldn't make a sound for a moment, until finally he began to choke audibly. He tried coughing but with little success. He lay back into the pillow, suffocating and rigid, his grip on House's leg unwavering – his only plea for help.

"Nurse!" House yelled. He grabbed the clicker and pounded on the button with his finger, a ringing in his ears. "Nurse!"

He stared at James desperately, blue eyes startled into panic.


	6. Chapter 5

A/N: Ah, finally, this chapter's done. I had to whittle away at it for a while there. It did come more easily eventually though. Sorry, it seems kind of pointless. 

Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers.

Remember, no slash! Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

Chapter 5

The white coats pulled him away from Wilson's rigid, warm body. They pulled him away from the bed and its comforting sheets. They crowded around Wilson and blinded House, wouldn't let him see. No one listened to him.

"Wilson!" he screamed.

They were dragging him out.

"Wilson!"

The machines raged, cursing in their language that had been so soothing only moments ago. The fingers were curling into his arms, too tight and too cruel. The mouths babbled, and the legs stamped on. The door swung closed, and the noises diminished behind the glass. He glanced back. A wheelchair appeared. He jerked in their grasp and yelled for Wilson, sounding like a mad man.

"House?"

It was Cuddy.

"Wilson!" he screamed again. The white coats were staring at him, eyes all around him. Cuddy gave him an incredulous look.

"Calm down! What's gotten in to you?"

"Don't tell me to calm down," he snapped. "Wilson's in there and something's wrong and they won't let me go!"

She looked to the two nurses, as he seethed with crackling eyes. His leg was pathetic and collapsed beneath him, pulsing with pain. Cuddy didn't give him another word before striding toward Wilson's room briskly.

"Cuddy!" House yelled. She turned around. "Let me in!" She looked at him for a moment, exasperated, as another nurse edged the wheelchair closer to House's hanging body.

"You'll get in the way, House," she said. "We don't even know what's wrong yet. Go rest in your own room."

They pulled him back into the chair.

"You bitch!"

She continued on into Wilson's room. The three nurses restrained him, and his leg was dead anyway. They wrestled down the hall and into the elevator, all the way to House's room. He never shut up, cursing at them and calling them everything he could think of, beating on the elevator walls and not giving a damn if they thought he was crazy. He wasn't pleased, however, when they strapped him back into his bed.

"God damn it! Let me the fuck out now!" The nurses filed quietly out of his room, as his whole body hammered into the mattress. "Wilson! Wilson! Somebody let me out of this fucking bed!"

Cameron froze at the sound of his voice. She hurried in her heels toward his room, and the nurses gave her a warning look.

"I wouldn't go in there," one of them said. She was a middle-aged black woman.

"Why not?"

"Don't you hear him? He's not in the best mood."

"Dr. Cuddy notified me last night that something happened to Dr. House. What's going on?"

"You better talk to her. We just came to take him out of Dr. Wilson's room and put him back into his."

"Dr. Wilson?"

"He was in a car accident a few nights ago."

Her face fell further. "How bad is it? Is he going to be all right?"

"We don't know."

"Well – what is Dr. House yelling about? Is he all right?"

"We had to strap him to the bed."

Her lips formed a pretty _o. _"Strap him to the bed?"

"Dr. Cuddy's orders."

"I don't see how that's necessary."

The nurse shrugged. "Talk to Dr. Cuddy. That's all I can tell you." She left, and the others followed.

Cameron approached the door shyly and peeked in to see House lying livid. She was tempted to talk to him but decided that it would probably be better to speak with Cuddy after all. She noticed his white fists and left the door wordlessly.

* * *

Foreman and Chase strode up alongside Cameron just as she neared Cuddy's office. They were wearing those white coats that had become House's enemy, while Cameron remained an ordinary civilian in her jeans and striped blouse. Her hair bounced lightly, the coats swished around their legs, and she glanced at both of them with a hint of annoyance.

"What's up with House?" Foreman questioned.

"I don't know, that's why I'm going to Cuddy," Cameron answered.

"Have you seen him?" said Chase.

"Barely." Her face darkened.

"All Cuddy said in her message was that something had happened to House, not the slightest detail."

"Something happened to Wilson, too," Cameron supplied.

"Wilson?" Chase echoed. His nose crinkled.

"He was in a car accident." Her hand touched Cuddy's office door, and the men recoiled at the news. She led them in.

"Dr. Cuddy," she said. Said doctor looked up from a file she had been perusing. She stood behind her desk in the pale sunlight.

"Dr. Cameron."

"We're here about House."

"Of course." She closed the filed and set it down on her desk. "I've been expecting you. Have a seat." Foreman and Chase settled down onto Cuddy's couch, but Cameron lingered in Cuddy's gaze for an extra moment. She could see it in the elder woman's face – it was bad. Whatever it was. She sat in between the men.

"Dr. House – tried to commit suicide Friday night."

Cameron was a picture of shock. Foreman scoffed into a smile.

"What do you mean he tried to commit suicide?"

Cuddy kept her head bowed. "He overdosed on the Vicodin."

Foreman stopped smiling. Chase looked up at her like a little boy does at his mother when she tells him the dog has died.

"The only reason we were able to treat him was because he came in when he found out about Dr. Wilson."

"How – how is Dr. Wilson?" Cameron stuttered. Cuddy looked at her and sighed.

"His car was totaled," she began. "As far as we know, he suffered a concussion and some broken ribs. We've already operated to stop some internal bleeding in his abdomen, and so far, it looks like the surgery was successful. He had a slight complication a short time ago; his airway started to close up. We've stabilized him, and he's resting."

"Jesus," Foreman blurted somewhere in the middle of her explanation.

"So he's going to be okay?" Cameron pressed.

"Right now, we think so. If anything else goes wrong, we'll deal with it."

"And – and House?" said Chase.

She half-shrugged. "We did our best to pump the drugs out of his system while he was unconscious that first night, but the dosage was excessive enough that we probably didn't get all of it. He had a seizure, and that's why we initially had him strapped into bed. He did suffer the standard dizziness, nausea, etc., but nothing serious had turned up. I'm going to run some tests on his liver - " (she looked at her watch), "and I guess we'll go from there."

"Dr. Cuddy – I passed his room when I arrived here, and they had strapped him back into bed. He was really upset. Do you still think that's necessary?" Cameron stared with big eyes.

"I have a feeling Dr. House would leave his room without restraints. He threw a fit when today when I ordered him out of Wilson's room. He needs to rest, and so does Dr. Wilson. And until he can grow up and listen, he'll just have to stay strapped in."

Cameron lowered her gaze in defeat. Foreman sighed through pursed lips. Chase's eyes searched the empty space. Cuddy bit her lip and almost forgot about Wilson's file on her desk.

* * *

House's breaths sounded like the tide, seeping in and out of his nose in a forced manner. His hands remained curled into fists, arms trapped at his sides. He clenched those fists periodically, trying not to go bad again. He had worn himself out after twenty minutes of thrashing and shouting. Now, his blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling tiles.

Nothing. They had told him nothing. No one had come into his room again. No one had answered his incessant pages. No one had given him any word about Wilson. His sanity was crumbling. He was acutely aware of the strap and buckle across his chest every time he breathed. His mind was plagued with Wilson. If something was really wrong, wouldn't someone have come and told him? Then again, if everything were fine, wouldn't they have told him that? Damn it, how could he know and have peace of mind if no one said anything?

Wilson needed him. He needed Wilson. What fucking right did Cuddy have to separate them? To keep him in the dark? He deflated again. Clenched his fists. He needed to see Wilson. He needed to know what the hell was going on. He shut his eyes.

He remembered more of the days following his infarction, the days Wilson had been there, the days after Stacy had left. Only difference was that Wilson still hadn't left him.

_Wilson stepped into House's room quietly, almost afraid. The lamp above the bed was the only light on in the room; otherwise, it was dark. The machines were beeping familiarly, and they glowed like little cities below an airplane. Wilson noticed the way House's chest rose and fell evenly, indicating sleep. He reached for the nearby chair and pulled it along behind him as quietly as possible. The plastic wrap around his bouquet crinkled when he sat down, and House opened his eyes. _

_"My God," he said. Wilson smiled. "No wonder Jennifer left you. You're the most obvious lover in the universe." Wilson almost chuckled, but he was afraid to get too happy. He stared at House for a long while, as the smile faded. His deep, brown eyes glowed in the shadows. He didn't know what to say – so he stared. He bit his lip, as House's blue eyes looked to him in defeat. It was the first time Wilson had seen him this tired, this beaten. It made him sad._

"_How are you?" he said, finally. He felt stupid the second the sentence left his tongue. _

"_Alive," said House. Wilson gave a timid nod, eyes dropping. He looked at the wrinkles in his pants for a minute, before House spoke._

"_So do they smell good?" Wilson looked up as if startled, nervous like a schoolboy with a crush. _

"_Uh, yeah, here." He held out the flowers and House sniffed. _

"_Not bad... Sunflowers? Did you think they'd cheer me up?"_

_Wilson couldn't even manage to shrug all the way. "I – just thought they were nice." _

_House looked at him and softened again. He was too tired and depressed to make Wilson feel bad. _

"_They _are_ nice," he murmured. Wilson gave him a weak grin and set the bouquet on the table next to him. _

"_And I brought this..." He bent down and picked up a teddy bear from the dark floor, looking shyly to House and waiting for a response. House actually smiled a little. _

"_Cute," he said. "More proof to the fact that you're an unbelievable softy – but cute." _

_The dying light caressed Wilson's face as he smiled and put the teddy bear in the corner of House's bed, above the pillow. House smiled to himself for the sake of the moment and waited until Wilson was settled back in the chair. _

"_She had the surgery done," he said. Wilson didn't know what to say at once, and a pregnant silence followed. "I'm a cripple." The words were firm and flowing and connected – no hesitation or break or euphemisms. _

"_No, you're not," Wilson said, leaning forward and resisting the urge to touch House's hand. _

"_Yes, I am," said House, voice barely rising. "You'll see when they make me walk, if I don't die first." _

"_You're not going to die," said Wilson, frowning._

"_I hope I do," said House bluntly. He said it to the air in the other direction, looking away from Wilson. He knew the frown deepened without seeing it, anyway. Wilson put his face in his hand, forcing his eyes closed. _

"_She was just worried about you. She didn't want to lose you." _

"_So she made me a cripple while I was in a coma because she knew I didn't want it done." He couldn't rise to rage yet. "You gotta admit that's pretty low." _

"_She saved your life." _

"_What life? What kind of fucking life do I have now?" He hissed a breath into his lungs as the pain jumped. He squeezed the metal armrest, and Wilson looked at him again. House tried to breathe through it. They'd given him some kind of drug, but every once in a while, the pain would bolt up anyway. _

"_Do you want me to get someone?" Wilson asked anxiously. _

"_If one more person in a lab coat comes in here, I'll introduce them to this pain in my leg." _

"_All right..." _

"_Fuck." _

_Wilson fidgeted. He didn't know what to do. _

"_She did lose me," House grunted. _

"_What?" _

"_She did lose me. It's over." _

_Wilson stared at him with his characteristic disbelief that made him resemble a puppy whose ball gets run over. His mouth didn't make an _o_. The space was more like a misshapen kiss, one that was never allowed to reach its destination. _

"_It's over?"_

"_It's done." _

"_What do you mean?" Wilson was growing flustered now. He straightened, perked up, leaned forward a little. House was still rigid, still gripping the metal; it was turning warm under his hand now, when it should have been cold, that perpetual cold of hospital metal. _

"_I dumped her," House almost screamed. _

"_No," Wilson retorted. "No, you didn't." _

_House sunk, exhaling as the pain began to fade. "No," he echoed. "I didn't. I just told her to go to hell, and she left me."_

_Wilson sunk back in his chair, eyes still wide and shock still freezing his face. He resisted the urge to tell House that he was an ass, that it was perhaps the most stupid thing he had ever heard of, and how the hell could House be that much of an ungrateful jerk to the woman he loved, who had just saved his life? No, Wilson didn't say anything, couldn't say anything. Meanwhile, House moaned. _

"_She left me," he said again. His voice cracked, and he was panting, pale face gleaming with sweat. "Oh, God. Stacy left me." Wilson blinked out of his reverie as House began to sob. He was absolutely startled now. He didn't think he had ever seen House cry. _

"_She made me a cripple, and she left," House shouted, slamming his fist into the metal he'd warmed. "God damn it!" He wept, his whole a body a heaving mass of despair, wracked with pain of every kind that no drug could dull. Wilson's tender eyes searched his friend's back, the wrinkles in the hospital gown, the sobs that never penetrated the glass wall. His heart was aching in a way that it rarely ever had. He stood without thinking and pushed the bar down and sat on the bed. He lay his hand on House's shoulder first, unsure, eyes shining. He didn't have the right to cry. He wasn't the one lying in this bed, good life shattered. But he was in pain too – a strange, new pain that he hadn't been expecting. Only House could do that to him. _

_Wilson gripped House's shoulder. House didn't acknowledge the gesture. He refused to look at Wilson, refused to let anyone see him cry. He was trying so hard to stop himself, but he had lost control over his own body, over his own life. At last, Wilson draped his arm over House, hugging him close. House whimpered, pain spiking in his heart. Wilson's arm was snug around his chest and Wilson's hand was squeezing his and Wilson's head was resting on his own at some awkward angle. _

"_I'm sorry I didn't come sooner." _

_House sobbed. Typical Wilson – always another apology._

"_I'm sorry." Wilson's voice was filled with painful grief, helpless to save his friend and overwhelmed with a rare compassion and anguish because of House's suffering. His breath, his soft murmur, was hot in House's ear. What was he supposed to do? He realized now, in this moment, that House was his responsibility from here on out. The only person closer to House than Wilson was Stacy, and she was gone, as far as he could see. House was a wreck – an emotional and physical disaster. No way in hell he would pull through this alone. Someone had to be there for the physical therapy. Someone had to be there to hold his hand through the pain. Someone had to make sure that none of the doctors screwed up. Someone had to be there to tell him that his life wasn't over, that just because his life had changed didn't mean that he was suddenly worthless. Someone had to make sure he ate, slept, worked, functioned as he should. Someone had to pull him out of depression once the healthy period of grieving was over. Someone had to save him from killing himself. And Wilson, having a relatively normal and hassle-free life, decided that someone would be him from now on. _

_He was grateful when his one tear disappeared into House's unnoticed. He didn't say anymore, didn't move. He remained the cradle for House's body, the heart that told House's how to keep beating, the hand at his friend's disposal. And he let House cry; he knew the man probably wouldn't again for a long time. Wilson knew House wouldn't let anyone, not even him, give comfort like this again. Wilson somehow knew, in the nagging pocket of his heart, that House was going to go down a road of isolation. It had always been a shadow in his nature. The brilliant doctor wasn't going to let anyone treat him like crap just because his leg wouldn't work anymore, and consequently, he also wasn't going to accept much compassion from people either. Wilson took advantage of this precious, last chance. _

_He woke up the next morning somewhat stretched out, body still against House's back and fingers still tangled in his friend's. The twilight peeked through the blinds, and he wondered at how no one had woken him up and told him to go home. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped to God no one had walked past and gotten any ideas from his peculiar position on House's bed... _

House stared back up at the ceiling tiles. Before last night, that had been the last time he and Wilson had really touched each other, taken comfort in each other. It seemed fitting that they had waited five years and for the near death of them both to do so again.

Suddenly, he wanted a smoke. He wanted a Vicodin. His hand twitched. He needed to go to the bathroom. He unclenched his hand and moved it over the bed until his fingers met the clicker. His thumb pushed the little, black button twice. He waited.

"House."

He looked over to the door.

"Cuddy."


	7. Chapter 6

A/N: Yay! I finished this chapter! Ah, I'm happy for the length, at least, though I don't know about quality. Please forgive me if it sucks more than usual. I was kind of racing through it. Anyway, thanks to all my supporters, love you guys. 

No slash. Please read and review. Thank you.

* * *

Chapter 6

Cuddy stared at House warily. She was extremely flustered.

"Just came to make sure the nurses had done their job without getting assaulted."

"Oh, yeah, they're the ones that need to be worried over. As you can see, they

successfully strapped me in. You have no need to worry."

She had never heard that much scorn in one person's tone. He was so angry, he didn't even think to ask her about Wilson yet.

"Have fun," she said before walking out. She didn't look back to meet his snarling glare.

* * *

Cameron stopped mid-step when she heard House's breathing. It sunk into place with the heart monitor beeping, though whether it was the harmony or the melody, she couldn't tell. It was soft and constant, like the sound of the tide in a seashell. Besides the monitor, it was the only sound in the room, and she didn't put forth any effort to drown it out with her own noise. No, she was still. She was silent. She stood only three steps ahead of the door, listening, watching him sleep. He probably didn't know he was sleeping, hadn't planned on it. She wondered what he was dreaming of.

She stepped again. Closer. She noticed wrinkles sprinkled on his face, some faint, some more defined. Not too many. Even in sleep, he didn't look tender. But there was a soft quality to him that she couldn't ignore. His lips were set in a naturally sad line, maybe more dissatisfied than sad. His eyelashes were hazel. His brow was haunted with anxiety, even its undisturbed state.

She stepped closer. His shoulders were somewhere in between broad and hungry. Cameron had wondered a few times before if he ate well. She could tell that in the past, his body had been that of an athlete, but the muscles were weakened now, loosened. They clung to him only as a reminder of his former self, little touches in his arms and his chest.

Ah, his chest. She watched rise and fall with his tide breaths. It was an intriguing shape – almost like the top half of an hourglass and yet not so narrow when it turned into his belly. It was a steady flat land from breastbone to hips, but something about that land was warm and inviting. Something about that place that rose and fell with his breathing seemed like a home of love, the kind of love that few people in the world still believed in or possessed. She stepped closer and wondered at his heart and the way it beat and what it really looked like at the core of his torso.

She wanted to know who had known that place, his chest. She wanted to know who had traveled his shoulders, the muscles in his arms, his belly, his hips. She wanted to know who had felt warmth come from his hands because she knew that regardless of the man he was now, his hands had once been warm. She fluttered to know who had spent time in his embrace. She wanted to know who had made him happy and who made him happy now, if anybody did. She wanted to know why.

And then she remembered Wilson. She remembered that House had come down here for him and him alone. She remembered that Wilson was the only reason House was alive. She remembered the way Wilson could walk at House's side and the way Wilson was the only one who ever spent real time in House's office, the only one welcome to. She remembered all the times she had watched them leave together or arrive on their floor in the elevator together. She remembered catching the two of them murmuring to each other in a hallway or in an empty corner and emerging from a patient-less exam room together. She remembered all the times Wilson had loitered amongst Foreman, Chase, and herself when House was leading them in a diagnostic quest.

"_Yeah, why are you here?"_

"_I was lonely."_

And she almost wanted to smack herself when she realized she had forgotten about Wilson's visit to her on the day of her date with House. Wilson had been worried for House, not her. And he had expressed his concern with a sensitive integrity that she'd never before seen in a man. It had startled then, and it startled her now.

She looked at House. She saw Wilson in his wrinkles. She heard Wilson in his heart monitor. She heard him in House's breathing, too. She pursed her lips, gripped House's file a little. She didn't know whether to be grateful for Wilson saving House's life or to be jealous of the way House loved him. Even if it was only a friendship, it was more than she had with House, much more. It was more than what anyone had with House.

Her eyes lingered on him for a stretched moment, before she finally tore them away and left him sleeping and oblivious to her visit.

* * *

"Dr. House."

He looked to the door. Cuddy.

"Oh, God."

"Glad you're so happy to see me."

"Should I be?"

"I was thinking apologetic more than anything, but then, expecting an apology from you is like waiting for God to come down to our place."

"Apologetic? What the hell should I be sorry for?"

"Well, there was that 'bitch' comment, but you know, maybe I'm being uptight."

"Maybe you should be apologizing for getting your cronies to haul me away from my best friend and strap me back into this bed."

She glared at him narrowly. "You would have gotten in the way. You're not the only one who needs to do his job around here. But I'm not going to have this discussion with you. That's not what I came for."

His blue eyes resented her, but she continued.

"You want to know about Wilson."

He nodded shortly. She challenged him with her own gaze.

"He needs a blood transfusion."

"Blood?"

"Yes – apparently, he lost more than we thought, more than he should have. It wouldn't be a direct cause of death now, but he's weak. He needs the blood for a better recovery."

"When do you have him scheduled?"

She grimaced. Odd, House thought.

"There's a problem," she said. He looked at her expectantly. She pursed her lips. "We're all out of his blood type."

His eyebrows rose.

"All out of his blood type?"

She shut her eyes painfully. "Yes. He's type O, and we just used our last bag, if you can believe it."

"You're out of type O? Christ, what kind of hospital is this?"

"It's Monday. A new shipment comes in tomorrow."

"Wilson may not have until tomorrow," House said darkly.

"Oh, come on, House. We're only giving him a transfusion as a leg-up on recovery. He's not dying."

"I don't want to take any chances, Cuddy. Every day, he loses a little more strength fighting. He needs the blood today."

"Well, that's not going to happen." She crossed her arms and looked sympathetically at him. She knew how much Wilson worried him. She paced, turning away from him, and he thought.

"Take mine," he said.

She faced him. "Excuse me?"

"Take mine," he said gently. "I'm type O."

She blinked at him. "You're kidding."

"Nope," he said. "O as the sound you made when we had sex."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I think you're getting your fantasies mixed up with reality."

He grinned. "Well?"

She sighed. "I don't know, House. You've still got drugs in your system, and you're not in much better shape then he is. I'd say it's too risky."

"Too risky?" he echoed indignantly. "Lisa, this is James, we're talking about here."

She softened at the sound of her name. He never used her first name. Not since before his infarction. It reminded her of when they had been friends – real friends.

"I know who it is, Greg. But I don't think it's necessary to jeopardize your health when he has no immediate need."

"Cuddy, listen to me. I've got a feeling about this, okay? Just take my blood and give it to him before the day's over."

Her lips twitched. "A feeling?" she mused.

"Yeah, like the ones you have for me."

She made a "tiff" sound.

"But seriously," he said. "Do it, Cuddy. Please."

Again, she was taken by surprise. If that wasn't the first time House had used the word "please" in regards to herself, in a non-sarcastic way, then she really must be getting old and losing her memory. She sighed.

"Fine," she said. "But you've just bought yourself more mothering."

She stepped to the door, and he stared at her gratefully. She smiled before leaving.

"I'll be back with a nurse."

* * *

Cameron pushed the door open slowly, leaning in to glance at Wilson. She was glad to find him awake, though visibly tired. No sign of the customary neck brace that concussion victims wore, but he was wearing an oxygen mask.

"Dr. Wilson," she said, her voice and face pleasant to him.

"Dr. Cameron," he said, muffled in the mask. He fogged up the plastic when he spoke.

"How are you?" she asked. The afternoon sun shone on her back, diminished and cut up through the blinds.

He reached up with the bracelet arm, drawing up the IV tubes, and pulled off the mask. Her lips parted a little.

"I've been better," he said, offering a smile.

"Should you really be taking that off?" she said. She was tentative as always, and he just grinned at her.

"I think I can spare a few minutes without it."

She nodded, bouncing up once on her feet, eyes wandering the floor.

"Why does House love you so much?"

Her voice was soft. Wilson recoiled, failing to hide his surprise. She stared steadily at him, but he couldn't meet her gaze.

"Uh," he sounded unintelligibly. "I – I wouldn't say he _loves_ me."

"He loves you. If you can't see that, then – I don't know what to think of you."

His expression somehow matched hers in that moment. He searched the empty space.

"You really think he does?"

"No one would know better than you," she said. He thought again, troubled.

"I guess he does," he admitted quietly. She nodded.

"Why?" she asked again.

He shook his head. "I don't know." He looked up at her. "I don't know."

"Because you love him?"

Wilson stared at her for a long while, his brown eyes glowing with more than he could ever put into words. And she never looked away. She read him.

"I don't know," he said again, softly.

"You love him," she said, after a moment. It wasn't a question but an observation. He didn't know whether to drop his gaze or not. He did after a minute. He wasn't trying to figure out if he loved House or not. He already knew he did.

"I do," he said. They shared eyes for another long pause of silence. She nodded briefly, before turning away and leaving Wilson still thinking in the silence.

* * *

"Okay, stretch out your arm."

Cuddy had brought a black nurse along, young and tall and probably an ex-convict, in House's opinion. As such, you'd think he'd recoil from offering his vein to her needle, but he decided it was better to be noble. And plus, he could hold it over Wilson later.

She sat boyishly on the stool, the armrest having been pushed down, and he obeyed her cool command with a glance at a Cuddy, who looked bored. He noticed the way the ivory, surgical gloves looked like the cream center of an expensive, dark chocolate when it changed into the nurse's arm. She stuck the needle in his vein unceremoniously, and he resisted the temptation to cry out in mock agony and have her arrested for medical malpractice. Could they even charge nurses with that?

"Tanya." He read her name tag, which wasn't something House usually did with personnel. Or anyone in this hospital, for that matter. She looked up at him only for an instant. "Nice name. It – fits."

She glanced at him again, her black eyes forewarning. He grinned, and Cuddy shook her head. Once Tanya had filled two bags, she pulled the needle out and pressed a cotton ball to his vein, wrapping it tightly in place. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything about her name. She snapped the gloves off and threw them in the can. Cuddy smiled and thanked her, as she handed over the bags. She wasted no time leaving.

"Not quite your overweight, gospel-singing black woman, huh?" said House.

Cuddy glared. "I'll be back," she said, swishing her hips to the beat of her heels. First, she would have to take the blood to the lab and have it run through the system for safety. After, it was off to deliver it to Wilson's nurses.

House called out to her, "Oh, they _so_ should've cast you in _Terminator_."

But he shut his eyes against the dizziness once she was gone.

* * *

Wilson woke up from his light sleep at the sound of rolling wheels. Two nurses had arrived. One seated herself promptly on the stool and pushed down the arm bar, taking Wilson's wrist.

"How are you today, Dr. Wilson?" she asked, checking his pulse before looking to the monitors.

"Uh – fine," he said in confusion.

"You're having a transfusion today."

"But – but I thought we had to wait for the new shipment."

"Dr. House has donated his blood."

He didn't answer, but his eyes glimmered. House. His heart fluttered with his breath, and he didn't know why. Cuddy slipped in and handed over two bags of blood to the nearest nurse. She gave him a smile before sliding away again.

* * *

House vomited into the trash can. It seemed to be mostly water, since he hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours. He sighed, half-leaning over the arm bar, holding up the trash can with his quickly tiring arm. He had a cold sweat, and the nausea still hadn't dissipated. It had come back around the time Cuddy and the nurse left with his blood an hour or two ago. And of course, he wouldn't say anything. He was hoping he could get up and sneak the trash bag out the next time he was alone. After retching once more, he wiped his mouth with the napkin Cuddy had left with a glass of water and threw it away. Drying his face as best he could, he reached for his magazine and took the wrapper off the lollipop Chase had left him. It had been waiting in his office with a purpose.

Cuddy had lost count of how many times she'd walked into House's room that day. She should never have to see him this much in a twenty-four hour period. He looked up from the latest issue of People magazine, even though she could have sworn she'd seen him reading it last week, and took the lollipop out of his mouth.

"Well?"

"They're prepping for the transfusion."

He nodded. "How is he?"

"He's fine. Where did you get that?" She indicated the bright, red sucker.

"I told the nurse I'd do her in my car if she brought me one from reception."

"Right," Cuddy said, half-disgusted and half-amused.

"Hey, my car is hot," he retorted. "How are his vitals?"

"Your car's? I don't know, I'd have to go out to parking and check."

"Nice. I mean Wilson." As if he needed to specify.

"I told you he was fine."

"And besides, my car is a she, thank you."

"Oh, well, excuse me."

"How are his vitals?"

"You're being difficult."

"Cuddy," he whined.

"House," she mimicked. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, sighed, and looked at House.

"How are his vitals?" House repeated.

"His BP's a little low, normal temperature, weak pulse. He's back on oxygen, until the transfusion's complete. There's some abdominal swelling, but nothing out of the ordinary. He's on Percocet right now and -- "

"Percocet? The man's just had a major abdominal injury and surgery, a concussion, and broken ribs. He should be on Demerol, at least. Or oxycodone."

"We're giving him a continuous dosage, don't worry. He doesn't want a lot of drugs; he says he can handle the pain."

"Dick."

Cuddy leered as if House was her teenage son. House was quiet, though. His blue eyes wandered, and she knew he was worried for Wilson, no matter what he said.

"He's fine, Greg," she said softly. "He's going to be fine. You should be more worried about yourself."

He scoffed. "Yeah, whatever."

"We still haven't gotten your test results back," she warned.

"Does it matter either way?"

"Well, considering you're the one who will have to put up with any treatment, I would care if I were you."

He exhaled through his nose audibly, his arms crossed. She stared at him relentlessly but with compassion.

"You can see him," she murmured. He looked to her. Suddenly, her pager went off.

"What is it?" he asked, as her face fell. She dashed out of his room without a word.

"Cuddy! Cuddy!" He had a bad feeling about this.

* * *

"He went into hypovolemic shock," she said quietly. "We don't think there's any brain damage, we had the blood ready. We were lucky. Damn lucky."

House felt his heart stop after the first five words. Shock. Wilson. Brain damage. Oh, God.

"There was a pocket – that they didn't find when they operated. He's been bleeding this whole time..."

House had his face buried in his hands. He wanted to scream at Cuddy for her stupidity, even though he knew it wasn't her fault. He wanted to find the surgeon and kick his ass.

"We've put him on a ventilator. He wasn't woken up yet."

Shit, shit, shit.

"Your blood is sustaining him for now, but we need to operate as soon as possible."

"When is he scheduled for surgery?"

"In a few hours. He's not quite done with the transfusion yet."

He nodded against his hand.

"House," she said. "I – I don't know if he's going to make it. He's lost so much blood and even with the transfusion, surgery's just --"

"He'll make it," said House, looking up at her, eyes piercing. She knew she couldn't say anymore. "He'll make it."

* * *

House wheeled himself into Wilson's room for the third time. His face grew sad; Wilson was hooked up to more machines now than he had been the last time. It made House's heart clench, though he'd never admit it to anyone. He sighed. The sound of the heart monitor, the music, was almost drowned out by the slower chugging of the ventilator. Wilson cracked open his eyes and looked over at House. Even through all the noise, he didn't miss the sound of the wheel chair approaching. He gave his friend a faint smile. His hand twitched on the bed, asking for the other doctor's, and House answered its call without hesitation. He gave it a squeeze.

House offered him a pursed smile. He was more troubled than Wilson, which didn't surprise either of them. Wilson lowered his eyes for a moment. He wanted to say so much. God damn his breathing. He looked back up at House, and blue eyes held on to brown, held close – in the place of a hug that the tubes and Wilson's body wouldn't allow for. They understood. Wilson was glad.

"You don't have to thank me," said House. Wilson grinned to himself. House knew him too well.

"It's you," House added. "I hope you didn't expect any less."

He searched Wilson's eyes again, gripped his hand a little harder.

"You really will be okay this time," House said. It sounded pathetic to him, but he didn't stop believing in it. He needed to – more than anything else. Wilson didn't bother nodding. He just looked. The only one he was afraid for was House. If he wasn't so damn tired and beat up, he would have argued over the blood donation forever. House needed to recover. That's what Wilson needed. More than anything else.

Goddamn. He wanted to tell House to take care of himself, to rest and eat and do what Cuddy and the nurses told him to do. He wanted to be there, monitoring him and mothering him and making sure House _was_ going along. He didn't completely trust anyone else to do it. Even with Cuddy in charge, he couldn't help but worry. No one would tell him how House was really holding up because they didn't want to burden him.

House squeezed Wilson's hand and stroked Wilson's fingers with his thumb. For a fleeting moment, he considered saying goodbye for some reason. He refused.

"I'll see you after, okay?"

Wilson looked at him and nodded after a pregnant pause. House dropped his gaze into his lap. He didn't let go of Wilson's hand until Cuddy stepped in and told him his time was up.

* * *

House was quiet but restless back in his room. 9:02. He rocked his leg back and forth. His head was too right for the pillow. He wanted another lollipop to suck on. He wanted to get the hell out of here and go to Wilson's OR. Cuddy would stop him, though; she was pacing, looking at his charts and the monitors. He was still showing signs of the overdose, and she didn't like it.

"Your breathing's slow, House," she said. "I think I'm going to start you on oxygen. You're not going anywhere until I see some improvement."

She turned and approached the door, heels clicking on the tile, but stopped when House didn't respond. She peered over her shoulder at him. He was staring blankly into space.

"House?"

She returned to her place against the metal armrest and touched his arm. Her eyes widened when she realized he'd slipped into a coma.


	8. Chapter 7

_A/N: _Okay. I need your opinion/advice, dear readers. I've been thinking about slash. It's not the first time. The regular readers will know up until this point, I have never intentionally written slash, although some people choose to read my work that way, which is fine. I wonder, though, if I should actually try writing slash deliberately. It's tough because I don't love anything more than friendship, and I like the fact that while a lot of people write a massive amount of slash in pretty much every fandom, I've maintained a history of only writing platonic but passionate friendship. I'm sure I could write slash; I'm just not sure if I should. I don't want to very well join the masses, you know, but at the same time, I know many people enjoy reading it and it would be interesting territory for me to explore. I don't know. What do you think?

Please Read and Review in detail, thank you.

* * *

Chapter 7

He opened his eyes to the sound of Wilson's exhale. He was in his living room. The light was western orange, and Wilson was lying on his couch, arm slumped over his eyes. His shirt was crumpled even while he wore it, wrinkles moving like fishes in a pond when he breathed. The first two buttons were undone. His tie was a coiled snake on the carpet. His shoes were empty and his socks were black. He breathed again. What the hell was House doing here?

"I can't do this anymore, Greg," said Wilson, no doubt in his voice about House's presence. "I can't do this." He sounded tired and defeated. Greg recognized it and didn't like it at all. He didn't say a word out of confusion, even though he wanted to ask Wilson what he was talking about. The oncologist sighed.

"I can't keep failing and coming over to your place to mourn on the couch like a woman." His voice cracked somewhere after the f word.

"You can always have the couch," House said, without thinking. "I like my chair better, anyway."

Wilson peeked at House from under his arm with a wide smile. He gave a shaky laugh and his teeth twinkled. House felt an impending grin come and go, as he realized Wilson had started to cry. He had laughed into tears.

"Oh, God," he sobbed, his whole body shaking while he tried to make minimal noise. He choked, heaved, wept. "What's wrong with me?" he whimpered. "Why can't I make this work?"

And that's when it hit House. This was the day after Wilson's second wife had filed for divorce, just over three years ago. He had gone back in time. Or something. But he remembered now. He had lived this. It was a memory. Somehow, he didn't expect anything he still had to say.

Wilson hissed into a toothy grin once more, chest quaking with both tears and the senseless laughter he had the habit of bringing up when he was truly falling apart. He stared at House with his eyes streaming, his cheeks gleaming in the time-distorted light.

"She cheated on me," he said. "I mean, I could understand if this was like last time, where I cheated first, but I didn't even do anything this time."

House looked at him painfully.

"Christ," Wilson chirped, chest heaving like hummingbird wings. "I didn't screw up this time, and I end up getting dumped." He covered his eyes with his hand. "Although," he sniffled, "I guess I did screw up or she wouldn't be leaving." His lips cracked into agony, and House felt himself shift, moved with compassion. His leg protested more hotly than usual, and he almost cursed as he reminded himself that this was 2002. The infarction had happened only two years ago.

Wilson sucked in a sharp breath. "What if I can't do it? What if I can't succeed at marriage? What if I end up alone?" His chest felt like it was being eaten from the inside, from the inner walls to his heart. Pain shivered in his ribs and his muscles like shards of glass embedded in the bone and flesh. House couldn't take it anymore.

"All right," he said, moving from his spot and cursing under his breath when his leg seared with pain. He was grateful that it was only four steps to the couch. He patted Wilson's leg, signaling him to sit up and make room. Wilson rose slowly, as if his whole body really did ache with the flu, sniffling furiously but to no avail. House sunk into the leather beside him and lay down his cane. He wrapped his arm around Wilson's trembling shoulders, and Wilson fell into his chest and rested his head on House's shoulder.

"You won't end up alone," House murmured, rubbing Wilson's arm. "You just have to find the right girl, that's all."

"What if – I can't make anyone happy?" Wilson whispered.

"You make me happy," House answered. Wilson shut his eyes, pouring out tears through the corners and the cracks. House lay his head against Wilson's and didn't stop stroking the oncologist's arm – up, down, up down. He closed his eyes too and realized he was tired. He reached for sleep, listening to Wilson's sniffles and holding him close. He knew what it was to be abandoned by a lover for no good reason.

He felt Wilson's breathing begin to even out. He felt until it was slow, steady breaths against his heart, warm with grief. His hand had slowed against Wilson's arm, matching those breaths. This was all they had left now. Love left them in bitter pieces. But not all love, as they would realize down the road. They should have in this moment.

Wait. House did. He had to tell Wilson, so that the oncologist would know before the accident and suicide attempt. But somehow, he couldn't form the words. He couldn't change the past. Damn. Instead, he sat with Wilson and tried to tell him through his fingers and his palm and his shoulder and his arm. He knew it probably wouldn't work. But at least he knew. At least he had remembered this again.

Wilson's breaths were hot against him, his body softened in the warmth of House's half-hug. Wilson didn't make any move to bring himself out of his limp state, and House drew his other arm across to hang on his best friend. He felt sort of awkward with that empty space in between his arm and chest, but he hadn't felt this right since before the infarction. With his head rested on Wilson's, his arms comforting his friend, and no one else in the world, he felt right.

* * *

Cameron's pager sounded, closely followed by Foreman and Chase's. She looked down at hers before meeting their gaze.

"Cuddy," she said.

"That probably means House," said Foreman.

"Or Wilson," Chase reminded.

Cameron bit her lip and stood. The men trailed behind her out of the room.

* * *

"Ready?" Hourani asked. He glanced at his assistant surgeons and nurses, dressed in matching scrubs. They nodded, heart monitor their background music. Wilson was already drugged and sleeping, his belly exposed to the light. The incision from the first surgery was an ugly fence of stitches across his lower abdomen, the skin still tender and violet-red where it was sewn shut. It would leave a scar that House could sneak peeks at with both mild compassion and teasing remarks. One of the surgeons at Hourani's left applied the disinfectant to Wilson's skin, a sick orange that would have made him tingle if he were awake. A nurse handed Hourani a scalpel. They were going to cut above the first incision and this time, make it smaller. They had located the bleed with an ultra sound earlier and knew exactly where to go and what they were dealing with. As they made a second incision, Wilson dreamed. He dreamed of a memory, one that he would rather forget.

"_He was dead for over a minute." _

_He collapsed back into the chair, taking in a breath his lungs didn't feel. He wanted to deny it, but his mouth hung open and silent. His eyes were gleaming and he knew the tears were there but didn't know why. The world lost its noise, still moving around him. _

_Greg. _

_The name was connected to too many memories, too much laughter and too many smiles. It had too much power over him. It made him feel too much like a man, alive with every pore. Only because of the fear. He should never be this afraid for anyone. He should never feel this way about loss and death. That's why he married women he knew he wouldn't love forever. And all along he knew that Greg was different. All along he knew he had let himself feel too far with Greg. That's why at the first wedding, he had found those blue eyes in the crowd and they helped him stay. And the second wedding, Greg stood next to him instead of his brother, those same eyes running the length of his shoulder and that familiar whisper telling him obscene things and making him beam as bride number two walked down the aisle. They had spent too many holidays and birthdays and weekends together. They had met each other's family and gone on vacations together. _

_Greg._

_Greg. Greg. _

_Oh, God. _

_You did not just leave me. _

_You did not just die without me._

_You didn't just go before I could reach you. _

_Why didn't you tell me? _

"_He asked to be put in a coma. They performed surgery a few hours ago. He – may never walk again. At this point, we don't know. He doesn't know the surgery was done." _

_Wilson looked up at her._

"_Doesn't know?"_

"_Stacy," she said. _

_And he knew. He was so close to crying. But he couldn't. He couldn't lose it here. He wasn't supposed to lose it at all – not his self-control. _

"_Can I see him?" he murmured, not even thinking. _

_She nodded, her eyes full and her face no longer protecting what she felt. Wilson stood without another word, brushing against her shoulder. He stood for a minute in a teeming hallway, looking, searching for the right room. He didn't feel his legs as he hurried to his left. His throat had closed up, and he was trying hard to breathe. Wandering eyes, wandering eyes. _

_He stopped. Stopped before the glass, the window separating him from the man in the bed. His lungs choked up. No one else seemed to notice him. Slowly, he approached, took another step forward, another step forward. Just a little bit longer. Just a few more steps left of this life. _

_He reached the glass, felt his fingers touch it – the cold. He leaned into it, lay his face against it. And suddenly, he was crying, hiding from the world but not from Greg. Never from Greg. House was hiding from him. _

"_James." _

_He sobbed, leaning into his arm but the sleeve wasn't big enough. Stacy was at his shoulder, coffee steaming and Styrofoam almost too hot in her hand. He couldn't look at her. He couldn't stop himself. He didn't understand why he was so obliterated. She looked at him, eyes filled up, and he cried to make his shoulders quake. She lifted her hand to rest on one. His fingertips kissed the glass without taking a breath; they would never have another chance._

* * *

Cameron hung halfway into House's room with Foreman and Chase behind her. Cuddy looked up at them, as a nurse secured an oxygen mask for House.

"Dr. Cuddy?" Cameron prompted.

"He's gone into a coma," Cuddy replied. The three faces in the doorway fell. Cameron stepped into the room fully after a pause, Foreman and Chase inching after her. They let the door shut behind them, dashing the possibility of being overheard.

"A coma?" Chase echoed, his brow knit. Cuddy nodded, before returning her attention to House.

"How are his stats?" Foreman asked, stepping forward. Most of the time, he didn't like House, but suddenly he was concerned for the bastard.

"Temperature's 98.5, BP's 110 over 70, pulse is 80 bpm, breathing's slow." She ran off the numbers as if House was any other patient, but the ducklings knew better. The way Cuddy looked at him was enough to know she was worried.

"80's low, isn't it?" Chase questioned.

"For him, yes."

"This is just side affects of the overdose, right?" said Foreman.

"I'm sure they are, though the blood transfusion didn't help any."

"Blood transfusion?"

"He gave up two pints for Dr. Wilson, who went into hypovolemic shock a few hours ago."

All three doctors recoiled. Cameron couldn't have looked much more shocked.

"A nurse will arrive shortly for another bag," Cuddy said distastefully.

"But I thought you just said losing blood made him worse," Foreman countered.

"Wilson's in surgery again," Cuddy informed. "They want to make sure he stays at a healthy level of blood. We were lucky this time; we don't think he's sustained any serious damage. I don't think he could handle it again, and none of us want to take any chances."

House's team gave her hard stares, all troubled with both doctors' conditions. They didn't know Wilson as well as they knew House, but the oncologist was easily the most amiable employee in the hospital and House's best friend. No other staff member would wish Wilson ill, no matter how much they knew him. Cameron, Foreman, and Chase also knew that if anything happened to Wilson, House wasn't going to take it well – if and when House woke up. He'd already tried to kill himself, and the last thing he needed was grief from Wilson.

A nurse entered quietly, pushing a tray with sterile equipment.

"I'm going to start him on a drug to counteract the Vicodin. We've already pumped his stomach for the alcohol, so hopefully the drug will work and bring him back around."

Cameron stared with gleaming eyes and Foreman nodded.

"Should we transfer him to the ICU?" Chase asked.

"No," said Cuddy. "We'll monitor him here. We don't need the whole hospital to track his every move."

The nurse seated herself at House's left, not bothering to disturb Cuddy, even though House's IV was inserted in his left arm. She pushed down the bar and disinfected the crook of his arm, where three veins passed in bold shades of blue and green. Cameron watched as she readied the needle.

"And Dr. Wilson?" Chase pressed.

"We'll see about him when he comes out of surgery," Cuddy said, before looking over at the nurse. "Hurry up with that blood. We don't have much time to run it through the lab."

Uneasy silence followed until the nurse was finished, upon which Chase offered to hurry it to the lab himself and whisked the bag away.

"Page us if anything comes up?" Foreman asked Cuddy.

"Of course," she said. He nodded and turned to go but touched Cameron's arm first.

"You okay?"

She looked at him from her blank stare at empty space. "Yeah," she said quietly, also under Cuddy's gaze. "Fine." She smiled faintly for a second, but Foreman's face didn't relax. He left anyway. Cameron stared at the floor, while Cuddy stared at Cameron. The younger woman smiled at the elder again, before wandering out, still troubled. Cuddy sighed.

* * *

House blinked one too many times when suddenly he found himself in bed instead of on his couch with Wilson. Hospital bed in a hospital room. Heart monitor, gown. Oh, shit. These were the first few days after the infarction. He moved with the insane notion of escaping but stopped when he realized Wilson was wrapped around him. Ah, he remembered this – the morning after Wilson's arrival.

The oncologist was still asleep, by the sound of his breaths. His brow rested on the back of House's shoulder, one arm outstretched above his head. His body as curled against House's, knees bent and stomach cradling House's back. The ailing doctor was surprised to find Wilson's hand still hooked into his own, fingers tightly laced with his. He tried to glance back at Wilson but couldn't see too far; he didn't want to wake his friend. Besides, the warmth of Wilson's body was comforting.

His leg throbbed. Twilight seeped through the blinds. The machines glowed and beeped. He was drowsy, and his eyes were sore. He remembered his emotional breakdown from the night before and wanted to crawl away and die of shame, even if it had only been Wilson watching. He sighed. Wilson. He moved his fingers around Wilson's a little. He shut his eyes and felt Wilson breathing against his back, chest pushing into him just a bit, breath warm on one spot in particular.

Stacy. Gone. Relationship over. Leg permanently fucked up. Oh, he just wanted to go back to sleep. He was surprised the pain was bearable. Maybe that was just because this was a dream or something. Since when had he fallen asleep anyway?

Wilson nuzzled him unconsciously, rubbing his face into House's shoulder. House stopped. His face softened, dark reality melting away from his thoughts. He hadn't remembered Wilson doing that before. House almost smiled, almost went a whole minute without being depressed. And yet – why should he be? This had already happened five years ago. He was used to it already. It was only a dream, a memory. Maybe the result of the date-rape drug Cuddy must've slipped into his coffee.

Wilson. His blue eyes widened. He needed to get back to Wilson! Shit. He had forgotten – the transfusion, the shock, the surgery. What was he doing here? He had to get out!

"Greg?" his friend murmured sleepily, as House tried to sit up. "What's wrong?"

"I've gotta get out of here," House answered, knowing he didn't make any sense but then Dream Wilson didn't know this was a dream.

"What?" The oncologist perked up a little. "Are you crazy?"

House looked over at those sweet, brown eyes with a sad expression that Wilson didn't understand. Dream Wilson didn't know about the future. He sat up and lay a hand on House's shoulder.

"How are you feeling? How's the pain? Do you need something? Lie down, you shouldn't move." He made to push House down, but House stopped him, gripping his hand and confusing him further.

"It's okay," House said. "I'm leaving."

Wilson stared at him, searching those blue eyes and wordlessly accusing him of insanity.

* * *

"Looks good?" Hourani asked one of his assistants. The woman nodded. "All right, let's sew him up. And get that blood in here."

He backed away, turned around, and snapped off his bloody latex gloves, leaving his assistants to stitch up Wilson's incision. Chase arrived in pastel yellow scrubs, carrying the sterile bag of blood. One of the surgical team members took it from him wordlessly and hooked it into the drip, before readying it with the transfusion tube. Chase stood looking at Wilson, eyes quiet.

"How is he?" he asked after a moment.

"Surgery went well," said the nearest surgeon, looking at Wilson also.

"_James," Stacy said again, her hand gentle on his shoulder, rubbing in abstract shapes. He shuddered and sobbed, face still pressed into his arm that rested on the glass. He whimpered. Her brow was knit with compassion and concern. Her coffee cup was hot in her hand. He tried to breathe but it wasn't working well. His throat still hadn't opened up, and he couldn't stop the tears. He wanted to just sit down right there and wail. And he didn't know why._

"_James," she said. "It's all right." Her voice cracked. "He's going to be okay. The surgery saved his life." _

_He could hear her guilt laced into her voice. She wouldn't mention that he may never walk again or at least never properly. She didn't mention that she'd ordered it done against his wishes or that he didn't even know because he was still in a coma. Wilson didn't have the heart to go there now. He couldn't find his voice to argue anyway. _

"_Come on, sit down," she coaxed, leading him away from the window and down the hall a bit to a waiting area. He didn't fight her because he couldn't even breathe. She sat him down as if he was her son, and he hung his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He still sobbed and shook, and she sat anxiously on the corner of her chair, looking at him and rubbing his back again. _

"_H-he was d-dead," Wilson choked. "He was dead." His voice was a squeak that made her heart ache. _

"_But he's alive now," she soothed. "And he's going to be fine." _

"_I wasn't here," Wilson continued, holding his face in one hand now. "God, I wasn't here." _

"_You are now," she said. "And that's all that matters. You're here now." _

_His shirt was rumpled and his hands were wet. His tie hung in between his knees. He heaved again but rubbed at his eye in a vain attempt to dry it. His hands and face were sopping. His eyes were horribly red, more than she had ever seen. She pulled a few tissues out of the box sitting on the table between their chairs, and he uttered a, "Thanks," when she offered them. _

"'_M sorry," he said with a hollow tone. "I don't know why I lost control like that." He wiped incessantly at his cheeks and eyes, but his lashes still looked wet. _

"_It's okay," she said. She grabbed his empty hand and squeezed. "It's going to be okay." _


	9. Chapter 8

A/N: Wow. So I wrote this chapter pretty fast after I posted the last one and received so many lovely, amazing reviews. You guys really do make the writing come easier and faster. I played around with the ending of this part a little bit, but ultimately, I think I like it. It's not over yet, though!

And I have decided that for now, I will not write slash. I was shocked to hear from so many people, most reviewers, that they don't want slash. I thought most people would. Amazing.

So no worries. This story will be friendship all the way, it was always going to be! I was really asking if I should write slash period, in general, in the future. But I guess not. At least, not for a while yet.

Come to think of it, this chapter is really sort of pointless. Not much happens in way of actual time. Bleh. Oh, well. Maybe you can make up some bull shit meaning.

I now have a new love for Hugh Laurie. The man. Is awesome.

I wrote this chapter mostly to the song **The Blower's Daughter by Damien Rice**. I love that song.

Please Read and Review!

* * *

Chapter 8

Greg was flashed away from the hospital bed and Wilson's eyes and into a bar – a crowded, noisy, shitty bar. Oddly enough, he was now looking at himself. He frowned. He looked like hell. His other self was slumped over the bar, completely stewed, looking as miserable as he'd ever been. Oh, he remembered this. This was the first time he'd gotten drunk after the infarction, the first thing he did once he was released from the hospital months after it happened. They'd shoved a cane in his hand after weeks of physical therapy, written him a prescription to Vicodin, and sent him on his way. None of them had expected he would clumsily drive himself to the nearest sordid bar and use what money he had left in his old clothes to properly mourn.

Oh, he was drunk. He hadn't known at the time how shitty he looked. It made him grimace now. Funny, no one seemed to notice he was standing there without a drink and completely sober, out of nowhere. They just kept drinking, kept yelling at the football game on TV, kept hitting on what cheap women were present.

"House!"

He looked over to see Wilson appear, flustered and heading right for his drunken self. Wilson had that look again – that frantic, worried as hell look. He hated that look – especially when it was directed at him. He stood unmoving and watched his best friend grab his other self by the collar of his jacket and pull him up off the bar.

"What the hell are you doing here?" the oncologist demanded. House didn't remember any of this, and seeing how drunk he'd been, he wasn't surprised. His drunken self blubbered. Wilson was wild-eyed.

"You just got out of the hospital! How the fuck could you come here and get wasted?"

"Shut up," House slurred, the drunken one, that is. The sober one was surprised he had managed to form words.

"How much did he drink?" Wilson asked the bartender, leaning over the bar while keeping his hold on House's collar. The bartender (who was sweaty, fat, angry-looking) shrugged, cigarette squashed in between his teeth. Wilson sighed in exasperation.

"Oh, yeah," the bartender grunted. He swung around, grabbed a mug of beer, and set it before House. "Forgot about that. Sorry, buddy."

House swayed, eyes rolling around, and made a pathetic attempt at grabbing the mug. Wilson snatched it away and threw it behind him, and sober House's eyebrows rose in surprise. That was most unlike Wilson.

"What the hell is your problem?" the drunken House complained. "I fucking wanted that."

"No," Wilson said, sounding like a mother talking to her kid in a Toys R Us.

"Al," said drunk House. "Whatever the fuck your name – get me another beer, please." He looked over at Wilson but couldn't see clearly. "This – asshole – over here spilled mine."

"No!" Wilson huffed. He slapped a fifty on the bar. "That should cover whatever he owes you. If there's not enough, just call me at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I'm Dr. James Wilson."

Al looked at him nonchalantly, before glancing down at the bill. Jesus, thought sober House, a fifty? That bastard bar tender probably kept the change!

"Come on," Wilson said to drunk House, yanking him by his collar.

"Fuck you," he drawled, stumbling. He was dizzy as hell. Sober House frowned at himself.

"Come on," Wilson hissed again, quieter this time. "You shouldn't be here."

He turned around and made for the door, but House tripped and fell, pulling Wilson back. Drunken House cried out in pain, his leg surely blazing.

"Jesus," Wilson said. "House." He leaned down and touched both House's shoulders. "Come on, get your cane." He reached over and picked up said cane, offering it to House. The floored doctor took it and flung it away again, farther, startling some other drinkers.

"No!" he yelled. "I don't want that fucking cane!"

Wilson peered up in embarrassment, blushing under the inquisitive stares of the other people, even the really drunken ones. House heaved, dropping his head back to look at the spinning ceiling. He shuddered.

"I don't want that fucking cane," he whimpered. Wilson's brow knit in sadness or compassion or one of those emotions House always found in his friend. Drunken House sucked in a painful breath, while Sober House watched these forgotten events with a troubled expression on his face.

"I don't want that fucking cane," his drunken self repeated, head rolling around. He hung it back again, eyes closed and leg screaming. He screamed now too.

"I don't want that fucking cane!"

Only faint clinking of glasses sounded in the bar now. Drunk House sobbed. He was crying. Sober House hadn't remembered that either. He stared hard and wounded at Wilson, who was looking down at his drunken counterpart with tears in his own eyes. He hated watching Wilson cry. He hated even seeing a trace of sorrow in those doe eyes. And Wilson looked so grieved now, in a way he had never seen before.

"I don't want that fucking cane."

It was a quiet squeak.

"Come on, Greg," Wilson whispered, taking his friend by the shoulders again, trying to pull him up. House choked, sobbed, and heaved. His ears were wet. He whimpered and his head fell forward into Wilson.

"I don't want it," he mewled into Wilson's tie. It peeked out of the oncologist's buttoned jacket. House took a sharp, hitched breath. "I don't want it."

Sober House watched Wilson fight the urge to drop to his knees and hug his drunken best friend. It gave his heart a nerve and touched it. Wilson shut his eyes painfully, refusing to cry, as drunken House rested against him.

"Come on, Greg," the oncologist whispered again. And somehow, sober House heard it, louder than any noise in the bar. Wilson straightened up and pulled House with him, as some meek man handed Wilson the cane with a polite smile. Wilson nodded with gleaming eyes, House leaning against him.

"I don't want it!" he yelled. "I don't want this fucking cane!" His chest ripped against Wilson's, as the younger doctor tried to lead him out.

"Go to hell!" House shouted. "All you fuckers! Go to hell with this fuckin' cane – and fuckin' Stacy!"

Sober House caught the ill expression pass through Wilson's face, and it made his stomach churn. God, he was pathetic. He watched himself, listened to himself leave, along with all the people in the bar. He watched himself use Wilson for a cane.

* * *

Cameron watched a nurse in blue scrubs wheel Wilson's gurney down the hall and back into his room. Another nurse pushed the drip along. Fluids, pain medication, and House's blood hung in sickly colors from it, tubes flowing down into Wilson's arm. He was asleep, still breathing with a ventilator; it trailed behind with a third nurse. Other spectators stood and watched Wilson's little parade, knowing who he was and who he was to House. And all Cameron could think about, as she watched the crimson bag of Gregory House's love, was how much of it Wilson and House actually shared. Too much to stay inside of them for good.

* * *

"That's strange," said Chase, standing on the right side of House's bed while Foreman stood on the left. "His heart beat just changed rhythms."

"Should we call Cuddy?" Foreman asked, looking over his shoulder at the monitor but unsure if the change was negative.

"No," said Chase softly. "I think it means something beyond his physical condition."

* * *

The nurses pushed Wilson's bed against the wall and positioned the machines around him.

"Poor Dr. Wilson," one of them sighed. "He really doesn't deserve this."

"He's such a nice man," another one squeaked.

"Nice enough to get that out of Dr. House," said the third, inclining her head toward the blood bag.

"Are you serious?" said the first.

"Yup. That's the third one, too, if my sources are correct."

"Damn."

"Dr. House really does care," said the second one with the squeaky voice.

The third scoffed. "Yeah – about Wilson, he does."

"Well, at least it's something."

"I heard he tried to kill himself," the first said.

The second nurse's eyes widened. "No way."

"Really."

"Always knew the bastard was crazy," said the third, shaking her head. All Wilson heard was his dreams.

"_Why are you wearing my jacket?" House asked wearily. _

"_I was lonely," said Wilson, eyes unafraid of House's. They shared the moment without smiles. "And it was the first one in my closet the morning I left."_

_Wilson had dropped his eyes to the floor, rubbing one calf with the other. House stared at him. _

"_Why are you lonely all the time?" he asked, voice raspy. Wilson shrugged with a sad, little smile. _

"_I just get lonely," he said. Even with his current wife and Greg and whatever other buddies he had, James Wilson still grew lonely. _

"_God, that's my shirt too," said House. Indeed, peaking through the jacket was a Mick Jagger t-shirt that made Wilson look like his college self._

_Wilson chuckled a little. "It smells like you." _

_House smiled tiredly. "Should I be offended or flattered?" _

"_I don't know," said Wilson. He shrugged, staring down at the spot of the jacket right over his left breast. "I mean – it smells like that cologne you always wear." _

"_That Armani stuff," said House, eyes closed. He didn't say, "the kind Stacy made me wear." _

"_Yeah – Ellen's going to think I've got a girlfriend," he grinned, referring to his second wife. _

_House raised one eyebrow. "Don't you?" _

"_No!" Wilson dismissed, wide-eyed at House, who just grinned. Wilson looked back down at the jacket. _

"_Funny how well it fits," he observed. _

"_Yeah, we were just destined to be best friends forever, weren't we?" House replied. "Want to get matching shoes and really be gay?" _

_Wilson laughed. "No, no thank you. I prefer the way things are." _

"_You fear change, Dr. Wilson," said House, adopting a mock-shrink tone. "That indicates a troubled childhood." _

"_If I had a troubled childhood, I'm afraid of what you had." _

"_I never was a child," said House. "The aliens to whom I was born breed full-grown adults. They dropped me off on your planet to find a love slave and make babies to take over the world." _

_Wilson cocked an eyebrow, bemused. "And your love slave would be?" _

_House sniggered deep in his throat, lips closed in a smile. "Why, James," he said, "I was hoping you'd ask." _

_Wilson rolled his eyes._

"_I was wondering how I would make my move on you," House continued. _

"_Sorry, Greg," said Wilson. "You're not pretty enough to be my wife." _

"_Oh, but we would make such pretty children," House countered. "And wouldn't that just make up for everything else?" _

"_Uh, for living around you 90 of the time? No." _

"_Aw," House whined. "James, you hurt my feelings." _

"_Going to tell your mommy?"_

"_No, actually, I was thinking I'd tell Cuddy, since this is her playground." _

"_Think she'll give me a spanking?" _

_House grinned wickedly. "I was hoping she would let _me_ give you the spanking." _

"_Ugh!" Wilson said, grabbing the pillow he'd been using in his chair and smacking House in the face. _

"_Ow, you bastard!" House said, as Wilson giggled. "We are so through." _

* * *

"Nothing else has changed?" Cuddy asked.

"No," Chase confirmed. "Just his heart rate."

She observed it tentatively. "It's not at a dangerous level…"

"Just different," said Chase.

"Probably just an affect of the coma," she shook off.

Foreman shared a look with Chase.

* * *

House took a breath he didn't feel, and the bar turned into a church. He stood in the very back, and watched Wilson trudge down the aisle and into a pew. The place was empty except for the choir, who practiced without acknowledging him. The only light shone on the altar, and it must've been near Christmas because poinsettias were ugly and red throughout the place and Wilson was wearing a long coat that House recognized. Why was Wilson here? House didn't understand. Was this a memory? He hadn't been here, obviously. How could he be seeing this?

"I – I know this is a Church," said Wilson, "not a synagogue – but I figure you're still God wherever I go, so I'm just going to stay and… talk."

He looked down at his knees, even though the altar was ahead of him.

"I know I haven't been the greatest Jew in the world."

House scoffed. _Yeah, Jesus kinda took that one._

"Not the greatest – person, either."

Oh, Wilson.

"I haven't talked to You in a long time. But I need you now."

His voice cracked.

"My friend is – I – I don't even know. He's just not okay."

His words shook. House looked at him dejectedly.

"It's Greg." Wilson looked up – not at the altar, but heavenward. "It's Greg."

A tear slid down his face without commotion.

"And I know he doesn't believe in You – and he hasn't been perfect either, but please, please help him."

Another tear. And House was wounded.

"He's my best friend."

Wilson's voice quivered like an exposed nerve.

"He's all I've got."

House felt a pit in his stomach. How the hell could he feel anything if this was a dream?

Wilson pursed his lips, but they still trembled. His eyes shone up, and House realized that Wilson was the only man he had ever seen who cried with grace. The oncologist bowed his head.

"I'm sorry," he choked. His shoulders bounced. "I'm so sorry."

House wanted to sweep over to him and hold those shoulders still. Even if it meant getting on his knees. Just because it was James.

"Please," Wilson whimpered. "Please don't take him away from me."

House felt his heart palpitate.

"Please don't --" Wilson fell silent for a moment, in which House feared for him, before sobbing out loud. The choir sang on. Wilson blubbered and House felt so unlike himself, his chest grieving. More alive than he'd felt since before the infarction.

"I – I love him," Wilson sputtered, chest heaving dangerously. "I love him s-so m-much."

House felt – God, he didn't know what he was feeling.

"And I just want him to be okay." It was a pathetic sound, and it broke House's heart. Wilson shook more than anything, and House noted how Wilson had a habit of doing that whenever he got really upset.

"He's in pain," the oncologist continued. "And he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve – any of this."

House could feel his eyes glimmer.

"And I don't know what to do. I just want him to be okay, and I don't know what to do."

Wilson cried deep again, shoulders risen above his head. Oh, how House wanted to rub the space in between, the place between his shoulder blades. He had never felt so compelled to do that to anyone, and it scared him.

Wilson pushed himself up off his knees and collapsed back into the pew, shoulders still quaking. He wrapped his arms around himself, held himself as if his heart hurt. Greg knew it did. Wilson cried. Greg's heart hurt too.

* * *

Cameron approached Wilson cautiously, afraid she might make something go wrong if she got too close. He remained unconscious and unaware of her presence, but she heard every one of her own footsteps. They sounded like awkward raindrops. The machines beeped and pumped and the IV dripped in three different tubes. He was white, gray, and purple all at the same time. It looked bad – really bad. She really wondered if he would pull through.

House was in a coma for him.

And if Wilson – died? What then?

House would try to kill himself again.

If he even woke up.

But if he does – and Wilson isn't here….

He'd never survive.

She half-sighed in anxiety and mounting desperation.

"Come on, Wilson," she said. "Live. You have to. House needs you."

_And I need House. _

* * *

Meanwhile, Wilson didn't stop dreaming.

"_Come on, Greg." _

"_Oh, God, no. I can't." _

"_Yes, you can. I'm right here. Just one more, I promise."_

"_It hurts... And I'm so tired." _

"_I know," Wilson murmured, rubbing House's shoulder. "I know. Just one more. And then it's over. We can have lunch in the cafeteria. They have that apple sauce you like, I checked this morning." _

"_Oh, God, it sounds like I'm eighty." _

"_Come on, Greg. Please. I'm right here." It was a whisper, and his hand slipped down into House's. House squeezed it, hard. But Wilson didn't complain. House clenched his jaw and tried again – tried to lift his leg without any help. His body stiffened, his face contorted with the effort and pain, dripping in sweat. Wilson was perched behind his shoulder, holding his hand, watching that leg move with his brown eyes glowing. _

"_That's it, Greg. That's it. A little further," he coaxed. House squeezed his hand. Wilson squeezed back. _

_Somehow, Wilson had convinced Cuddy to get rid of the physical therapist after the first few days and leave it to him. He knew House would feel more comfortable that way. And so Wilson did this with him everyday at 4 o'clock for an hour, and House cooperated because it was just Wilson and he didn't have the energy to fight. _

_4:56_

_His 12th leg-lift. _

_Oh, God._

_His heel hovered a foot above the bed, his whole body shaking now with sheer effort. _

_Wilson squeezed his hand._

_God damn it._

_He inched it higher._

"_Yes! That's it!" his friend cried, and House mused in the back of his head about how sad it was that Wilson was that excited about him lifting his leg. He dropped it, sighed in relief that felt more like ecstasy, his head falling back on the pillow and his chest heaving. Wilson gave him a little hug, and House let him because it was Wilson. The oncologist offered him his half-empty water glass with a genuine smile. House still panted for air, leg burning up. _

"_It hurts," he said. _

"_I'll get you something," Wilson assured. "Drink this." His voice was as gentle as his hand that guided House's back up off the pillow. House drank all of it, much to Wilson's satisfaction. The oncologist set the empty cup down and gave House another hug, purely out of impulse. This time, he held on for a good moment. House shut his eyes, chest rising and falling up into his best friend. He moved one arm, one hand to Wilson's back. God, he needed this. He didn't bother with the defense of personal space not only because he was too tired but also because he wanted comfort. He needed it – just as much as the drugs. It had only been three weeks. Stacy was gone. Life wasn't going away. Wilson was all he had. _

"_I'm proud of you," James said softly, eyes shut too. "You did well today." _

"_Thanks," House said, sounding sleepier. _

"_Are you hungry?"_

"_Not much. Just get me that nurse."_

"_I will. I'll go to the cafeteria and grab you some applesauce for later." _

_House smiled a little. Suddenly, he felt his eyes water. His curled his fingers into Wilson's shirt. Oh, he was grateful for this – for him. James Wilson. What would he do without James Wilson? He didn't want to let go just yet, even if he was really hot and wanted that medication really bad. _

"_You okay?" asked James. _

"_Yeah," House whispered. "Fine." His heart calmed under Wilson's. The pain in his leg receded to a deep throb. He breathed a little easier. Wilson stayed longer than he had to._

* * *

House ran but didn't know why he was running. He could hear his own quickened breathing and his sneakers squeaking against the tile. The halls were empty, and he passed through the lights like a car on a dark road.

Holy shit. He was running.

He didn't look down at his leg, but he suddenly realized it was normal again. No limp, no cane, no agony. He was running. Good God. His lips twitched for an instant; he wanted to laugh. He wasn't a cripple anymore. He didn't need the Vicodin. Somehow he knew he didn't even have a bottle on him. Wait 'til James saw this.

James.

His heart tightened, the blue and purple shooting through every vein, interrupting the red. James. Oh, God. Something was wrong. He had to find James. That's whom he was running to, that's why he was desperate. He had to reach the OR. He had to see his best friend. He had to tell him that everything was all right, that he was normal again, that he wasn't dying anymore. It would make James so happy. He had to tell him.

He burst through his last door. The nameless surgeons looked up at him and stopped. Only one light – that last, white light – shone here. He froze, blue eyes piercing and chest heaving with pants. They stared at him expectedly, silently.

The heart monitor. Where was the heart monitor?

Flat line.

Flat line.

It sung in his ears, cracking his brain, as constant as Wilson's love.

The heart monitor was a flat line.

He parted the ring of surgeons as if he had been empowered by God and didn't notice them disappear. He looked down at Wilson and didn't see the autumn stare.

_His doe-eyed savior._

"Wilson," he gasped.

Flat line, flat line.

The light touched Wilson's lashes, his hands, the blue sheet, the steel bed, the blood from nowhere, the veins in his wrists, the tubes the sprouted from them, his breast bone and his shoulders, his limp hair, his oxygen mask.

Flat line.

Oh, my God.

"James!"

He took the abandoned hand.

"James!"

He hadn't meant to abandon him.

"James!"

He shook it, rattled the imprisoned arm.

"James, listen to me!"

Flat line.

"Wake up!"

Blue eyes deserted, heart withering away.

"James!"

_Laughing over Christmas take-out._

"James!"

He knocked down the tray of surgical utensils, half-clean and half-bloodied, twinkling onto the floor.

"James!"

His eyes were full of tears, and his throat had closed up, rendering his voice a pitiful squeak. His lungs were shaking.

"James…"

He stepped closer, stepped into the bed. James' laughter flashed through his head, tinted in gold. James didn't squeeze his hand this time. A tear left his eye. He stared at Wilson's eyelids and discovered that his heart was still breakable.

"James," he choked. Every call grew quieter. Every moment stretched with that flat line sound of the world's end. Wilson tore down the heart he had put back together, and he'd walked out on him at last. And somewhere inside of House, he wanted so much to hate James, but all he could feel now was a pain that rivaled that of losing Stacy, scaring him like few other things could.

It was just as life had always been these last five years – House and Wilson, the only two left in the world, one of them gone and the other one devastated. It was the end House had been writing all along, the one he had tried to swallow away with the pills. But he hadn't been fast enough, even with two good legs.


	10. Chapter 9

A/N: Ah! I finished! (this chapter, anyway) Seems like I keep writing pointless shit. Bleh.

Songs for this chapter are **My Immortal by Evanescence, Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd, and Going Crazy by Plus One**. In that order.

Please, please read and review (in detail). Thank you so much.

* * *

Chapter 9

Wilson suddenly stood before House's office, watching his best friend through the glass. That Goddamn glass. He hated it. He hated it even though what he really hated was the way House separated himself from the world, from Wilson. He hated the way he couldn't get through, couldn't open the door, couldn't touch the brilliant doctor anymore than anyone else could. All he could do was stand on the outside and watch – watch House's self-destruction, his denial, his pain, his solitude. House brought the solitude down on himself. He created his own isolation. And damn it, Wilson wanted in! He wanted to reach House so badly. It destroyed him as he stood here, watching, unmoving. He knew House wouldn't come out this time. And he knew he would have to walk away.

House hobbled around his desk, eyes searching the floor, until he stopped to stare out the window, his back to Wilson. _Yes, that's right,_ the oncologist thought bitterly. _Turn your back on me again. Keep me out. Pretend I'm not here so you can play the fucking victim. Poor House, with no one in the world that cares. Except for me, you bastard. Always me. Your exception. But it's just a lie, isn't it? That's all it is. I'm your lie, your cover-up, your excuse of sanity for people like Cuddy. I stand out here and love you, while you wallow in your little box of self-pity. God, I hate you. I hate you because you're the only damn person I never stopped loving, and you don't care. _

House tipped his head back, and Wilson knew he'd just downed a few pills. The younger man gritted his teeth. He wanted to storm in there and throw House against a wall. He wanted to beat the shit out of him, hit those shoulders that mocked him, knock Greg's head into the floor, scream at him until he lost his voice. He wanted to scare House, wanted to scare him shitless. He wanted to scare him with his rage and his pain and his grief. He wanted to scare Greg into caring, into changing, into letting him in. But all he could do was stand out here, on the outside of the glass, looking beyond his reflection at the one human being he had invested his heart in.

Those first few months after the infarction had been brilliant. Not for House, of course, but for Wilson, it had been a glorious time of intimacy with his best friend. His second marriage had been plummeting into rocky static, and taking care of Greg had been his one salvation. That had been the first and only time Greg had totally leaned on him. He had been like a small child, barely able to do anything for himself without assistance. Wilson had gladly given it all the way through. He had relished being House's caretaker, because that's what he was good at – taking care of people. Greg had been uncharacteristically tender then, and for once, Wilson had felt like he knew for sure that House cared about him as much as Wilson cared for House.

Yet even during that time, Wilson had not overlooked House's depression. It was natural, he told himself. All patients went through that when they suffered something like this. He had tried so hard to avoid thinking that it would stick around or have some long-term affect on Greg's personality. But by the time House was fully released from all medical care, Wilson couldn't ignore the bitterness in his friend that showed no signs of receding. He had started to shun Wilson's care more and more, insisting he could take care of himself. He had avoided contact with all of his other old friends, and even though Wilson had pleaded with him not to do it, he had returned to his apartment that felt half-empty because of Stacy's absence.

And here they were. Gone were the days of eating quiet lunches together in a hospital room, watching daytime TV. Gone were the days of Wilson's joyful cheering at the progress House made with his leg. Gone were the days where House smiled fondly at him, tired and grateful. Gone were the hours where Wilson would sit at his bedside, reading or watching House sleep. Gone were the hours of holding Greg's hand, trying not to cry, telling him things would be all right again. Gone were the minutes of Jell-O and nostalgic laughter at dirty jokes and hospital gossip and nervous examinations. Gone was the Greg House that James Wilson had first befriended, the man he had come to love. No more joy, no more warm light in the blue eyes. No more confessional conversations.

Wilson bit his lip. He refused to cry. God, he hated himself. He was such a wimp, tearing up like this over old memories. Why was he even standing here? People were going to think he had some strange infatuation with House. He should move on, go see patients, finish his paperwork. But he couldn't pull himself away from the glass, couldn't stop thinking how he would give anything for life to go back to the way it used to be. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes stinging privately. He resisted the urge to slam his fist against the glass and finally turned his back on Greg and walked away. What else could he do?

* * *

House watched as Wilson's body was sucked away with the OR, until everything was gone and replaced with his living room. The empty bottle of Vicodin was on the carpet where he'd left it, and it was dark except for the moonlight that sneaked through the window next to the door. The piano keys were hidden underneath their cover, and the notes of his sheet music looked like letters blotched out with tears, distorted page after page after page. He was breathing hard, loud enough to fill the house. It still felt like he was having a nervous breakdown, a heart attack, a cardiac explosion.

He took a step forward but his leg failed him, the pain shooting up and strangling him. His body thudded on the carpet and he gurgled. He was back in reality, but why the hell was he here? How had he escaped the hospital and what had happened to Wilson? Was it over? Was he just supposed to go back to living without his best friend, pretend like things hadn't changed? He groaned as he rolled over onto his back. Goddamn his leg. Wilson smiled at him in that photo on the table by the door.

His pager went off. He groaned again, pain and confusion loading his brain.

"Wilson," he muttered.

The beeping persisted, quick and just loud enough to provoke a headache. He sat up, aching, and pushed himself to his feet using the piano for support. The pager blinked red and green in the dark on the top.

"Perfect."

He grabbed it and read: Good bye. His brow creased and he looked up – to catch a glimpse of another shape on the piano. He couldn't remember buying a gun.

* * *

"His BP's dropping!" Cameron said, moving around House's bed. Cuddy turned and leaned out the door for help. The machines' sounds swiveled into a whirlpool, speeding like a car on the freeway, the sounds as frantic as Cameron and Cuddy.

* * *

House reached out and pulled the gun toward himself, the metal a surprising room temperature when he thought it would be cold. He looked at it, leaning against the piano. Damned if he knew where the hell his cane was. The barrel gleamed.

* * *

Chase and Foreman swept into the room. House's pulse was racing out of control, crying out with an unnatural noise.

"Defibrillator! We need a defibrillator in here!" Cuddy called out into the hall at the passing nurses.

* * *

House gripped the weapon, almost fondling it, fixed on its silhouette. The bottle was hollow at his feet and Wilson was flashing through his head. Gun, laughter, gun, laughter, gun, smile, gun, brown eyes.

He pushed it against his temple.

* * *

The heart monitor flat lined, as a nurse wheeled in a defibrillator, and Cameron ripped open House's gown. Chase applied the pads and Cuddy slid up behind the nurse, as Foreman took the chargers. The machine buzzed in preparation, as Cameron looked up at Foreman and held down House's arm. Foreman stared at House.

"Clear."

* * *

"_And everything's the leg? Nothing's the pills?"_

"_They let me do my job," said House. "And they take away my pain." _

_Wilson stared at him before rubbing his neck and leaving, hiding the tears in his eyes. He whisked down the hall to his office. _

"_Why can't I take away your pain?" he murmured, his heart aching._

"_Wilson!"_

_He stopped and turned around, sniffled and blushed because he was crying. His eyes glimmered painfully and he didn't understand why House was standing outside his office door, calling after him. And he didn't bother trying to hide now. He let House see him, let House see his tears. And he didn't move when House started limping toward, hurrying as if Wilson were running away from him. But Wilson waited, waited and cried and hurt. House threw the cane against the wall and grabbed his friend. Wilson whimpered and grabbed him back, staggering under House's weight because the other doctor had to lean on something. And Wilson thanked God no one was around, that half the lights were off, and that House was here hugging him when he needed it more than anything. _

"_You're an addict," he burst. "You're an addict." His tears were soaking into House's shoulder. House breathed against him, leaned against, held him together even though House was the one whose life was dust. And Wilson sobbed angrily and his chest trembled into House's and he wanted to hit him so badly, but all he could do was dig his fingers into House's back. And House said nothing – because there was nothing he could possibly say. _

_Cuddy pursed her lips in the shadows, watching them. _

_Wilson stopped mumbling his accusations and settled for steady weeping. He knew House was an addict and so did House. He didn't say it because they didn't know; he said it because he couldn't say everything else, everything that was drowning his insides and pouring out of his eyes: that he had been the one behind the bet, that he had been afraid of this for years, that he was in tangled up agony over the fact that his best friend shut him out when it came to the pain and would rather lean on drugs and booze. And even though Wilson wanted to scream at House about the way it felt to stand outside the glass and the way it felt to look at old pictures when he was alone and sit on his living room sofa drunk while watching his old wedding videos because House was himself back then, he didn't say a word because he just couldn't let it out now or he might never stop screaming. He didn't mention the way his chest hadn't stopped aching in years or how often he cried himself to sleep because he was so tired of pretending that his life was perfect when it was hell. He couldn't tell House about the way he slept in their old concert T-shirts and thought about him in the weak sunlight of dawn when he got up to walk the dog. He couldn't say anything about his frustration or his loneliness or his absolute sense of failure as a man, a husband, a friend, a doctor, and a human being because he was supposed to be the okay one, the strong one, the stable one, the half-happy guy. But he wasn't. He wasn't, God damn it. And he never had been. _

_He felt sick. His legs quaked and he whimpered again, like a wounded puppy. He didn't know anymore if House was holding him up or if he was holding up House. But they weren't going to stand for long. Or rather, he wouldn't. Because he was the sturdy one, and House was the one who needed support. Only Wilson needed it too, and it was about time that he stop fighting nature and his own weakness and simply let himself collapse. _

* * *

White light surrounded House. It blinded him for a second, before starting to clear – and here he was, back in that place he had visited during the infarction. He was dressed in a white hospital gown, and everything seemed to be repaired – including his leg and his attitude.

He was dead.

Damn.

And he was lying on something soft, heavenly soft. He looked over and was surprised to find Wilson sleeping on his shoulder, curled against him. His blue eyes softened. Wilson glowed like a memory. House had never seen him (or anyone) so at peace. His heart was suddenly a foreign spot of mush. He reached over and touched Wilson's hair. He hadn't known he could touch with that much love. But here he was, running his fingers down Wilson's cheek. James smiled in his sleep and shifted.

"James," House said.

* * *

"Clear!"

Foreman tried again, monitor still flat lining. House's body jolted. Nothing.

"Clear!"

Cameron, Chase, and Cuddy watched and waited desperately, with impatient eyes.

* * *

House shut his eyes and stroked Wilson's cheek again.

"James," he whispered. He was so sorry – for all of this. They should have had more time. They should have made things right. They should have danced more and drunk more and laughed more and hugged more. They should have gone to more concerts and basketball games and monster truck rallies. They should have lived.

* * *

"Clear!" Foreman said. House's body jumped again. The flat line persisted.

"Come on," Cameron urged, almost shaking House's arm.

* * *

House took his hand away and faced up again, before closing his eyes to the white. Wilson slept on against him.

"I love you."

A whisper came loud in his ear.

"I still do."

Even in the dark, he recognized Wilson's voice. He meant to answer. He did. But instead he watched the past play out like one of those sentimental movies that he hated. And all he could hear was that damn Pink Floyd song, "Wish You Were Here," even when he could see their lips move.

* * *

"_How could you get drunk?" Wilson lamented, as House swayed, sitting on his bed. Neither wanted any light, even though it was almost pitch black. The cane lay discarded on the floor, and House's leaden limbs didn't bother trying to move. Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, as House let himself fall over onto his pillow with a satisfied noise. Wilson dropped to his knees and began to pull off House's shoes. He lifted House's legs onto the bed once he was finished, and House curled up, too drunk to complain or even notice the pain in his leg. Wilson sighed, before scooting closer on the carpet. Gently, he touched House's thigh, the damaged muscle throbbing. House moaned a little, but Wilson began to massage anyway. House shifted, stretched. Wilson worked the muscle, trying to loosen it, soothe its anger. His hands were tender with love and worry. His eyelids drooped even while his eyes themselves still stung. He continued for a while longer in silence, and when he finally pulled away, Greg caught him by the wrist._

"_Stay," he blurted, half-muffled in the pillow. Wilson sighed again. _

"_Should I go down to the couch?" he murmured._

_House shook his head against the pillow, as if Wilson could actually see him do it. "No," he said. "Bed." _

_It had only been a few months since Stacy had left him. He was still sleeping on his side of the bed, even though she wasn't coming back. Wilson hesitated, feeling awkward about sleeping in her old place, but at last he got up and stumbled around the bed. He plopped down gratefully and sunk into the pillow, his muscles aching just by reaching for the bed covers and pulling them up over himself. He tucked them around House too, and after a moment's debate, he moved in to lie against House's back. He slid his arm over House and listened to his friend's steady heartbeat and even breathing, while House thought of smiling because he was too damn tired and drunk to actually do so. Wilson exhaled and settled in comfortably, falling asleep all too quickly and warming Stacy's abandoned place. _

* * *

He took a breath.

Cuddy leaned over into his face. "House?"

Cameron sighed, and Chase exchanged a look with Foreman as the monitor beeping spiked back up again.

* * *

Wilson pondered berries. He had noticed recently that berries were typically sweeter if they were firmer rather than soft. Perhaps that's the way House was. Wilson should know by now, after all these years, whether or not House's insides were sweet or bitter or salty. He decided on tangy. He grinned. Yes, he thought additionally, House also had a sweet portion -- somewhere inside.

"Are you going to eat those or just coddle them in your bowl?"

He looked up at House, who was limping toward him. The elder man plopped into his armchair and propped his leg up on the table. Wilson smiled at him from the couch. He picked up a cherry and ate the fruit off the pit, throwing the violet-stained center back into the bowl. It was still attached to its stem.

"You want some?" he asked House.

"Too lazy," House said. He had his head back and his eyes closed. The mild lamp was the only light on in the house. "God, it's quiet. Find something on TV."

"You should learn to appreciate conversation and peace," Wilson said, sucking on another cherry.

"And you should turn on the Goddamn TV before I get cranky."

"You mean you're not already?"

He dropped the pit and picked up another fruit.

"Just turn it on," House whined.

"How was work?" Wilson asked.

House lifted his head and looked at him. "What are we, _married_?"

Wilson shrugged. "I was only asking."

"Why?" House said. "You hang around enough while we're there as it is."

"We never talk about work while we're _at_ work," Wilson protested. House rubbed his forehead and sighed. "You okay?" Wilson asked, those puppy eyes growing worried in an instant.

"My leg is more annoying than usual."

"Do you need some meds?"

"I just took some more Vicodin."

Wilson stared at him but House kept his eyes closed. The oncologist searched his friend's face, as silence passed between them, and he resisted the impulse to run his thumb over and over the rim of the bowl. His palms clung to the glass as if it were his salvation. His brow knit together, tighter and tighter.

"House."

"Mm?"

House lifted his head up and opened his eyes.

"What is it?"

Wilson stared at him, troubled, for only a moment before looking back down at the cherries. "Nothing." He shook his head.

"That look on your face wasn't _nothing_. What the hell is wrong?"

"Nothing," Wilson said, picking up a cherry. The stem felt like a needle in his fingertips.

"Wilson," House warned.

"How much Vicodin do you do a day?" Wilson looked up at him, meeting those clear eyes. House stared at him, mouth open. Wilson waited for a minute, before returning to the cherries. "Forget it, forget I said anything." He picked at them.

"Why does it matter?" House asked.

"Forget it," Wilson pressed, splitting a cherry with his teeth, letting its blood gush into his mouth and stain his teeth again. He felt his heart lurch, his stomach turn. That feeling washed over him again – that nausea of desperation for a real nervous breakdown, for any kind of violent, emotional release. He suddenly felt inadequate and that painful awareness of House's pill popping, of change. That's what was really painful – the change.

"I take the pills for pain," said House. "You know that."

"I said forget it, okay?" Wilson suffered to look at him again, started to sound angry.

"You asked, you want an answer."

"No. No, I don't."

"You're a sucky liar."

Wilson felt House's eyes. He hated that. House had power in those eyes. He always had. He dropped another pit into the bowl and picked up a new cherry quicker than before, shoving it into his mouth. He wanted to throw up.

"Do you really think I would abuse medication?" House asked him, sounding truly offended. "Did you just happen to forget that I'm a doctor too?"

"Drug abuse doesn't have a damn thing to do with your job," Wilson snapped.

"Okay, so I _am_ a drug abuser?"

"Why are we even having this conversation? I told you to forget it."

He finally stood up from the couch and quick-stepped to the kitchen with the bowl, ignoring the handful of uneaten cherries still waiting amongst the pits.

"You can't just say shit like that and then drop the conversation, James."

House got up too. He limped after, his voice unusually loud now.

"Don't go there, House," Wilson warned. He dropped the bowl into the sink and flipped the faucet on. The water rushed into the bowl, rising with the cherries and the pits. House stopped where the living room carpet met the kitchen tile.

"Why would you accuse me of being a stoner when you've been there since this whole damn thing started? Who the fuck do you think I am?"

"I don't know anymore!"

Wilson whipped around and threw the bowl at the wall, making House jump when it smashed hard, pieces of glass flying everywhere, water sailing through the air and cherries raining down with slimy pits. House stared at Wilson in disbelief, while the oncologist's chest shuddered and his eyes glimmered into House's. He dropped, searched the floor devastated by his atomic bowl, heat rising in his cheeks out of shame and his eyes stinging dry. He dropped to his knees and started to gather the biggest pieces of glass, as House watched him while the sink kept running. House felt the urge to stop him and comfort him and talk, but instead, he just stood there and watched Wilson refuse to cry and scream or get up and walk out. But he answered in his head: yes, no, maybe.

Yes, he abused the pills, loved the feeling of getting high. No, he wasn't stopping, wasn't letting up, wasn't admitting the truth to anyone. Maybe he needed the high to keep living, to stop himself from blowing up in all the emotional bullshit he had been ignoring for years, to get out of bed every day.

He watched and watched. The faucet ran. Wilson collected the big pieces of glass without cutting himself and trashed them, still blushing. He would need a broom for the rest. He didn't turn of the faucet just yet. He and House both knew they needed the noise to fill their silence.

* * *

Wilson.

_Breath._

House.

_Beep._

Wilson stepped up to the glass. House mimicked him on the other side. Their eyes met.


	11. Chapter 10

A/N: Wow. Well, I think – that is the last and closing chapter of this story. It's been great writing it, and it's been great getting your reviews. I hope it was all right. I'll be thinking about writing a sequel, but nothing's for sure yet.

**Please Read and Review!** This chapter means a lot to me, so I would appreciate all regular readers to review and tell me what you think about this chapter and the story in general. Thank you.

If you haven't already, please go check out my new House fic: **Cotton Candy Baby.**

* * *

Chapter 10

In the morning, the ducklings were back and tired. It seemed that a troubled House made them all restless. Chase brought the coffeepot to the table, passing through the pale light of morning. Cameron and Foreman sat in similar poses, looking sullen. The difference was that Cameron was worried for House, while Foreman was annoyed that his boss bothered him at all.

"Rough night?" said Chase, pouring coffee into his Styrofoam cup. He would drink it black today.

"Yeah," said Foreman.

"Why are we even here when we don't have any cases?" asked Cameron, more to herself than anyone else.

"Because we have no lives," said Chase. "And because – we're all worried about House."

"Doesn't make any sense," Foreman added.

"Well," said Chase. "As much of a bastard as he is, we've spent a lot of time with him."

Foreman scoffed. "So?" One eyebrow cocked. "If you spent half your life with Satan, that wouldn't make him anymore likable."

"He's a good man," Chase strained. "Even you have to see that. He's given me my fair share of grief too, but he's a good doctor and a good guy, even if you have to dig deep to see it."

"Good doctor, yes. I don't know if he's a good man."

"Oh, come on," said Chase, a little angry now. "He hasn't killed anyone."

Foreman raised an eyebrow again.

"Not on purpose," Chase added. "It's not his fault that things happened the way they did."

"Yeah, and it's also not his obligation to act the way he does."

"Don't you ever think about what he could have been like before his leg?"

"Wilson knows," said Cameron.

"Whatever," said Foreman. "I don't want him dead, I just don't think he deserves our concern."

Chase rubbed his brow and sighed. Foreman looked from him to Cameron, who sat quietly with a half-troubled, half-thoughtful expression. The light and shadow in the conference room was all dim and constant. Cameron couldn't help but look beyond to House's empty office. Even with all of his bullshit, she missed him. She missed working with him and she missed being around him. She didn't care if he liked her or not, though she believed that he definitely felt something for her. All she wanted was to have him around, speaking to her, looking at her, acknowledging her existence. That's all she needed. Even if she wanted more.

"Can you really believe it?" Chase asked, leaning on the back legs of his chair, coffee steaming.

"What?" said Foreman.

"This," said Chase. "All of this. House trying to kill himself and Wilson in a car crash and all of their complications."

Foreman shrugged. "Is it so unbelievable?"

"I don't know. I guess no one really expects it to happen to someone they know. Ignorant, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Foreman. "Is it ignorant to be optimistic?"

"No," Chase clipped. "But believing you're untouchable definitely is."

"People don't know how to be balanced," said Cameron, still staring at House's office.

"That's for sure," Chase said. "God, can you believe those two? House and Wilson? Damn, I wish I had a friendship like that. Any relationship like that."

"I guess I don't either," said Foreman, sounding a little sad.

"It's rare," said Cameron distantly. She felt over the leather chair, the blue light, the shadows and the carpet and the computer screen. Her eyes made love to his abandoned things, while her heart ached for the man himself. It ached for understanding too. She wished she could understand House, all the inner workings of him. "But only Wilson can."

"What?" Foreman said.

"Wilson," she said. "He's the only one that knows House on the inside."

"How scary is that?" Foreman said. "Knowing House's insides."

"Aren't you ever curious?" asked Chase. "He says he has no personal life, but you know that's gotta be bullshit. Even if it's just his own thoughts or feelings, it's a personal life."

"I dunno," said Foreman, shaking his head. "I don't think I want to know what House feels. It'd make it a hell of a lot more complicated."

"Work would be insufferable," Chase confirmed. "Of course – not like it's not now, right?"

Foreman grinned. Cameron's eyes reached the cane propped up against House's desk. They would bring it to him when he was released, she was sure. Hell, did he even need it anymore when he had Wilson? But hadn't he always had Wilson?

"Not like this," she breathed.

"Huh?" Chase sounded.

"Wilson and House. It's different now."

"What do you mean?"

"They're finally being honest with each other," she pondered aloud. "They're finally admitting they need each other to live."

"Uh, okay." Chase shot Foreman a wrinkled look.

"You really think it's like that?" Foreman asked her.

"Why not?" she said. "Have you ever seen them? Really seen them? Together? Have you really thought about all this? House came down here in the middle of suicide for Wilson. He gave up his own blood for Wilson, put himself in a coma, died."

The men digested her words, searching the air below them.

"And Wilson?" Foreman prompted.

"What about him? Haven't you worked here long enough to see him when he's around House? He couldn't be more obvious if he tried."

"So you think it's a romantic thing?" Chase questioned seriously.

"No," she said softly, shaking her head. "Much, much more than that."

* * *

House burst through the swinging doors again, in the same hallway with the same life-like lights. He was running again, free from his disability again. But he was faster this time, better this time. His Nikes squeaked on the tiles, his breathing was the only music left. The next door grew closer and closer.

_Wilson. _

He pushed through them, met the same masked faces, the expectant and lifeless eyes. He strode toward them, shoved them apart and away, didn't watch them disappear. Wilson's heart monitor was still beeping. He was here early.

"I'm here," he announced, almost shouting because he needed Wilson to listen, even if the man was unconscious. House reached into his pocket and took out a full bottle of Vicodin, his death, his release, the most important thing in his life for the last five years.

He ripped off the cap and tipped the bottle over, white pills raining down and bouncing along the floor. And he laughed.

"That's it!" he said. "I'm through! I'm living for you!"

Beep, beep, beep.

"You're not dying. You hear me?"

He tossed the surgical trays to the ground, and they clattered amongst the Vicodin.

"I'm living – and you're living too. We don't go anywhere alone."

He stepped closer. Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Now wake up. I've got the 'vette waiting outside."

The heart monitor's flat line rang loud in his ears, unyielding. He blanked out, the doors swung open, the sound penetrated the white light.

Wilson smiled at him, legs mirroring House's. He was wearing an old monster truck T-shirt, the same faded black as House's Rolling Stones' one.

"Race you to the lot," he said.

And House had a feeling his two good legs would remind him of victory.

* * *

Wilson lifted his eyes open slowly, hesitant for the possibility of bright light, but he found himself in a dimly lit room. The blinds were drawn and filtering. It must be morning. He looked over at the digital clock on his bedside table. 8:52 AM. He'd slept through the night. He sighed. He was faintly aware of the ache in his belly, where two sets of stitches made it harder to breathe than if he'd only had the broken ribs. Morphine was in his drip now, which was good. He wouldn't argue this time about the drugs.

He shut his eyes again. He was fatigued – enough that when his worries for House surfaced, they were worn out past desperation. He felt the soft coverlet with his right hand and wanted the comforting cotton of an old T-shirt, but he was stuck in the hospital gown. He listened to his own machinery – the heart monitor and the ventilator. The multi-colored lights blinked all around him.

"House," he murmured. His left hand found the beeper. He pushed the button with his thumb and waited. He remembered dreaming about a lot of things. He wondered if House dreamed at all.

House's heart monitor beeped lifelessly, as empty as he had been these five years. Every sound seemed to ring with duty and not will. And Cuddy listened – leaning in the doorway and watching. She listened and she knew and she understood. She just wished she had realized his unhappiness sooner. She wished she had forced herself into his life long ago, intervened and saved him this whole ordeal. She wondered what she would do now. What would she do with this man once he was up?

If he ever woke up.

She couldn't get ahead of herself. She shut her eyes painfully. She didn't think she could walk the halls of this hospital without House's harassment keeping her on her toes. She didn't believe Wilson would ever live again if House died. She didn't know if House could ever live again.

Didn't know if he wanted to.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Rise and fall.

Slow and unconscious.

Involuntary.

Every heartbeat, every breath, every fizzle of brain activity. All involuntary.

No gladdened choice from House.

She tried to remember things, tried to remember what he had been like before the infarction. She tried to remember what Wilson had been like before, how they had been. It was with riveting surprise that it finally occurred to her – Wilson's love for House, House's love for Wilson, their friendship had all deepened, strengthened, cemented because of that pain. The destruction of House's previous life, his personality, and his joy had been the birth of his now living love with James. They would never need each other this way if they hadn't been through that hell together.

House hadn't chosen the infarction. He hadn't chosen to lose Stacy. He hadn't chosen the pain, the disability, the anger, the depression. He hadn't chosen Wilson's love.

But it had come. It had all come. And it stayed. But Cuddy didn't know if one side could survive without the other.

And even through his pain, his exhaustion, his hopelessness, his suicide – House had come for Wilson. House had stayed for Wilson. House had given his blood, risked the life he didn't want.

She smiled, staring at House.

He knew.

He knew somewhere, deep down, about everything. He always had. And the salvation was there – a seed inside him. She wanted to laugh. He knew about the love. He knew it's whole story. And he understood. And that could only mean one thing.

She wondered if she should be surprised that he knew it all.

* * *

Wilson concentrated on exhaling, as a nurse arrived in answer to his call. He was familiar with her, as he was familiar with most of the staff in the hospital. She always treated him well, but then again, he couldn't think of anyone that didn't. His chest sunk with its thin cover – standard hospital gown. He wanted a battered, old T-shirt. He'd even settle for one of his dress shirts that he wore to work. He felt bare in these gowns, and he didn't handle exposure well.

"Good morning, Dr. Wilson," the nurse sang cheerfully. He smiled faintly at the ceiling.

"Hello," he said, trying to sound as all right as possible.

"How are you today?" She started checking his pulse in the wrist that harbored all the tubes.

"Tired," he admitted. "And a little sore."

"I heard your surgery went well last night," she said, scribbling down on his charts. "Congratulations."

He smiled again, trying to control the way his chest and belly moved when he breathed. She shut down the ventilator, satisfied that his breathing and stats were stable enough. All he had now was the oxygen mask.

"I'll see if I can get you something for the pain, okay?"

He nodded, breath seeping in and out stealthily. She smiled at him and disappeared just as she had come. He sighed in her absence, wincing. Now that he was more awake, everything felt sharper. Fuck. He closed his eyes again. It's okay, he told himself. Focus on breathing. Focus on something else.

Greg, Greg, Greg.

His chest rose, and his lungs expanded like a rising hill. He clenched the sheets loosely.

Every broken rib twanged, and he nibbled on his lip. His belly burned, and he squeezed his eyes tight, pursed his lips. He already had morphine; he couldn't take it all. He didn't know what she planned on bringing him, but he hoped she was fast.

He was surprised Julie hadn't called or shown up by now. God. He didn't want to think about Julie. Definitely didn't want to think about explaining things to her, especially when they involved Greg.

He exhaled, blew out, slowly – resisting nature's push to fly downhill.

He hated hills. He hated roller coasters. Fuck.

The nausea crept up on him. He swallowed.

"All right, here we go. I'm switching you to Demerol for now. It should kick in any minute now."

She maneuvered his drip, and he didn't bother watching. He kept his eyes closed and tried to focus, gripped the sheets a little more.

"Greg," he said weakly. She looked at him. "Dr. House – how is he?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know, sir. I'll find out for you, okay?"

She talked to him as if he were a child. He almost liked it. He nodded. She smiled even though his eyes were shut and left him again.

* * *

House breathed deep, opened his eyes as if he had just been asleep. They glowed in the dim light, glassy with disorientation and ebbing visions. The monitor noises began to sink in, the room began to slide into focus.

"House?"

Who was it? She approached, peering at him intensely. He struggled for a name, a label. Cuddy. Lisa Cuddy. That's right.

"House? Can you hear me?"

He grappled for his voice. "C-Cuddy."

She sighed into a smile.

"Why won't you leave me – the hell alone?" he said, flat and exhausted. She kept grinning.

"I enjoy hassling you," she said.

"Sentiment – returned."

Cameron lost her breath in the doorway, Foreman and Chase skidding to a halt at her shoulder. They gaped at their boss, though he didn't notice them. Cameron's heart fluttered.

"He's back," said Cuddy in deep satisfaction. House squinted at the ducklings.

"They've been – sitting on their asses – this whole time, haven't they?" he said.

"Of course," Chase smirked. House sighed and grumbled. Foreman only stared, and Cameron couldn't find her composure. She gawked open-mouthed at House, overwhelmed with a variety of emotions. Cuddy beamed at House in a way that unsettled him.

"Do you want to see Wilson?"

* * *

Several hours later, when the day was coming to a close, an anonymous nurse wheeled House slowly into Wilson's room because the doctor was too tired to wheel himself. His drip followed, escorted by another nurse. He began to think of them as zombies. Couldn't imagine why Wilson liked them so much.

Speaking of Wilson, the oncologist cracked his eyes open wearily, but when he glimpsed House, a smile spread on his face no matter how drugged and exhausted he was. It could shine to its fullest now, ventilator and oxygen mask removed.

"We have done this – too many damn times," House said. Wilson kept smiling. The nurses pushed House as close to the bed as they could, and House stared steadily at Wilson even as they left.

"You made it," he said. He didn't touch Wilson's hand. He just sat slack in the chair.

"So did you," Wilson replied.

"Barely."

The light in Wilson's eyes flickered. House's blues stared the light down, until they stifled. The silence seemed to fill too many hours, but their gaze communicated volumes until they were moved. House licked his lips.

"You know – even when I took the pills, all I could think about was you."

Wilson stared at him painfully.

"I was worried about you," House said, laughing into a toothy grin.

Wilson lost a tear.

"I was worried about – who would take care of you instead of me." His grin glistened for a minute before fading. "Even though you're the one that's been taking care of me all along."

Wilson's second tear.

"It was never about -- hurting you," said House, blue eyes swirling in Wilson's brown. "That was my only regret the whole way through."

Wilson wanted to look away, wanted to stop listening. His heart hurt. But he couldn't pull away from House's eyes.

"And when I was in a coma – I dreamt of you. How fucking sentimental is that, huh?"

House laughed strangely, but Wilson remained silent and sullen, lips tight.

"Did you really – did you really go to that church and pray?" House dared to ask. Wilson scoffed and buried his face in his hand, hiding his blush as his shoulders gave their first wobble. House bit his lip, eyes watering. Damn it.

"I remembered – the – the bar and the day you came over after your second wife filed." Wilson was shaking his head in his hand, face trembling like the tears caught in his eyelashes. "And the infarction and the cherries."

"God," Wilson gasped.

"We've been through a lot of shit, huh?" House remarked deadpan.

"I dreamt of you too," said Wilson, voice fragile. He looked up at House, whose expression matched his surprise. Wilson offered a faint smile that died when he looked away. House lowered his head and searched his lap, right side of his body lit up by the lamp and the left side in shadow.

"I had this nightmare thing," he began, turning Wilson into his shrink. "My leg was normal again – but you died."

He looked up at Wilson, whose brow was mildly knit and eyes discreet in their tear output. House finally gave up his own too.

"You died – and I killed myself. Really killed myself. That's when they lost me for a minute…"

Wilson suppressed the words in his head, _like last time_.

"And we were dead – together. But I wasn't satisfied."

They shared a hard and heavy gaze.

"I was just glad to have you back again."

Wilson was only a cloudy shape in House's sight, as the elder man stared with streaming eyes. He had never been so undone, not in five years. It scared him – like falling in the dark and not knowing where the bottom was. Wilson mirrored him, face an ocean bed in the light. Even through all that water, House knew what Wilson wanted.

"You just had your second surgery within a week. Your ribs are broken."

Wilson shook, fighting back a sob. "Jesus, Greg. Just give me a damn hug."

House inhaled sharply, as Wilson moved his hand over the bed. House beat him to it and took down the metal bar. He hoisted himself out of the wheelchair and onto the bed, Wilson's eyes following him and hand rising. House reached out and helped him up, into his own embrace. Wilson hissed, more tears flowing for both the pain that rippled throughout his torso and the overwhelming satisfaction of at last reuniting with Greg – for good. House tried to be careful, but he couldn't stop himself from cradling Wilson close against him. And Wilson didn't care if his ribs were further damaged or if his belly ripped open. He would bleed for Greg's love any day. He would suffer for the comfort over and over again.

He shut his eyes against more tears, as Greg started rocking him. His fingers curled into House's hospital gown, while House's hand moved over his back restlessly. He hid his lips in House's shoulder, and House finally closed his eyes too because they stung too much to stare into space. He rubbed Wilson's back soothingly, traveling over his spine again and again because circles reminded him too much of irreversible habits. Wilson was shaking anyway, and he felt as if his heart really was about to rupture.

"Wow, you're bad for my cold bastard image," said House, and Wilson shook into a smile.

"I really love you, you know that?" he said. "You need to know that."

House was still falling at 100 mph. "I know," he whispered. "I know." And he was a flaming star.

Wilson cried on, listening to their papery breaths and afraid that House would leave him hanging. But he got an answer this time, the one he'd been praying for all along.

"I love you too," House said, heart exploding like an atomic bomb. "Christ."

Wilson hiccuped into the climax of his flood, and House half-laughed because it was cute.

"I do," he said, voice failing. "Damn it, I do." He caressed Wilson's spine as if he'd find the other half of his soul in its knobs. Or maybe he needed to make Wilson feel his love instead of just hearing it. "I love you." Wilson wept quaking against his heart, a boneless and beautiful jellyfish. "I love you, and I'm so sorry for everything. I never meant it – any of it. I didn't know what I was doing. I was a dumbass. I love you so much – Christ, Christ. I can't live without you."

Holy shit. Did he really just say all that?

But it was true. And Wilson deserved to know. And House couldn't keep it in when the feelings were bursting for release. Wilson was making a strange gulping sound, and House's shoulder was completely soaked. He felt heat rise in his face from the inside out. But then he plunged into memory: Wilson smiling at him. Wilson laughing with him. Wilson getting drunk with him. Wilson eating dinner with him every night for weeks once he came home from the hospital so he wouldn't be alone. Wilson at his side every minute through his recovery once Stacy was gone. Wilson on his couch and Wilson in his car. Wilson in his office and Wilson next to him in the hallways. Wilson having lunch with him every day and Wilson yelling at him over his addiction. Wilson with him every year for Christmas and Wilson remembering his birthday. Wilson crying for him and Wilson holding him together. Wilson letting him win at arguments and Wilson escorting him to monster truck rallies and rock concerts and basketball games. Wilson hugging him, loving him, teaching him how to walk again, understanding and persisting and listening to him. Wilson giving him that annoying worried look and Wilson hiding out with him in empty exam rooms, answering his every page, answering his phone calls at 2 AM, taking care of him when he was sick, defending him when everyone else turned their backs, losing his job for him and still doing him a favor afterward, teasing him and falling asleep on his couch, praying for him, pretending to be happy for him. Wilson. Wilson.

"I love you so much," he whispered again. To hell with shame.

Wilson gave shuddering breaths, lost for words and unable to describe anything he felt. He hadn't been this happy or this emotional in _years_, so many long years. _Overwhelmed _didn't even begin to catch it. No one had ever shaken him like this, touched him like this, meant this much to him. He couldn't possibly answer, couldn't even think. All he was, was feeling – all glorious, uncontrolled emotion. He thought maybe he should answer or move, as House stroked his back, but he was frozen. He had never loved losing so much.

"James," said House, heart pounding into Wilson's, kicking the monitor's ass. He pushed Wilson away and took the oncologist's face in his hands, wetting them. He searched those busted eyes with his own, as Wilson's lip quivered. "You have to know that," House said, echoing Wilson. House had always known James loved him. He wasn't so sure Wilson had always known about his love. "You have to." Wilson stared at him, and House swore he saw pain even if that didn't make sense. James nodded after a long pause and pulled House back into their embrace. He lay his head on House's wet shoulder, wanting nothing more than to sleep there, heal there.

"You have to know how much I love you – how much I've always loved you."

Wilson just lay against him, almost silent now, tears running away from him. And House held him. He could've said more. He could've thanked Wilson a thousand times, apologized ten times more. But nothing seemed to feel right now, after love. He stayed shut up and hoped Wilson just knew. And Wilson knew. Didn't care. All that mattered were the spoken words and the feeling that threatened to split these walls and the glass and their flesh. Love. Their fucked up, once-in-a-lifetime love. Life force of their friendship.

Oh, God. He knew. He knew for sure now. House loved him. House loved him just as he loved House. It made all the exhausting emotion and physical pain worth it – a hundred times over. He wanted to pass out right here, in House's arms, finally relieved. Elation spread through him from his core like ink in water. This was better than sex, better than romance, better than porn and winning Head of Oncology. Better than anything he could think of now, in his liquefied brain.

House rubbed Wilson's back, rested his head on Wilson's. He sighed, shut his eyes. Fuck it. He would live.


End file.
